Bad Apple

by Elle Kennedy

  I don’t think the words relax or unwind are even in her vocabulary. And as an objective observer, I grow more and more troubled each time I find her asleep at the computer desk and have to carry her to bed at four in the morning.

  Not that I don’t appreciate a solid work ethic, because I do. Despite what Maggie thinks, I worked hard for the money sitting in my bank account, the money I earned before Gretchen shocked me and the world by leaving me a part of her fortune. Acting isn’t all fun and games, and when I’m in the middle of an intense shoot, I barely leave my house, let alone socialize.

  But in all the years I’ve been doing this, I’ve always forced myself to take breaks, to make sure my work doesn’t monopolize my life. I’ve seen a fair amount of actors crash and burn, make six films back to back and get so lost in the industry they didn’t even know who they were anymore.

  Maggie might not be in the movie business, but she’s a workaholic through and through. She needs to slow down, and I’ve officially dubbed myself the man who’ll help her do that.

  It’s time to step in. I promised her I wouldn’t complicate her life, but this is just plain ridiculous. As much as I love having a quiet place to hide out, how much longer can I really watch Maggie waste her life away?

  At the moment, she’s on the other end of the couch, devouring a book about autism. She hasn’t gotten up in three hours. I want to suggest we order a pizza or something, but I know trying to get her to quit when she’s still absorbed in her work will get me nowhere.

  Instead, I flick on the TV, instantly groaning when I see what’s on.

  For the first time all afternoon, Maggie glances up from her book. Her gaze follows mine and she makes a face when she sees the entertainment segment. “Don’t these people have lives?” she grumbles.

  I turn up the volume.

  “Ben Barrett’s newest flame must be keeping him very busy,” the host says with a mischievous grin. “The sexy action star has been off the radar for nearly a week now and everyone is wondering how he’s been passing the time…”

  “Should we tell them?” Maggie says with a tiny grin.

  “Was that an honest-to-God joke?” I return with mock-amazement. “Holy shit. I didn’t think you were capable of anything but working.”

  “Ha ha.”

  “Early in the week, Barrett’s car was found vandalized in front of a New York City strip club,” the host continues. “It was later revealed he spent the night in a hotel with an unidentified woman…”

  “They make you sound like a sleazebag,” Maggie says.

  “Although rumors are swirling that Barrett is out of sight due to a secret elopement with his mysterious new flame—”

  A burst of laughter rings out, courtesy of Maggie.

  “—a source close to the actor admits that Barrett is keeping a low profile because of the Gretchen Goodrich scandal. Goodrich, who was the wife of Academy-Award-winning director Alan Goodrich, recently left Barrett a sizable fortune after—”

  I turn off the TV with an angry frown. Damn vultures. Why the fuck can’t they just leave me alone? Why can’t they let Gretchen rest in peace?

  “So…” Maggie’s curious voice breaks through my thoughts. “Are you ever going to tell me what happened with Gretchen Goodrich?”

  “Sure.” I turn my head and stare her down. “If you agree to take a break for a couple of days.”

  “I don’t take breaks.”

  “Then start.”

  She rolls her eyes. “We’ve been through this already.”

  “I don’t care. I don’t think it’s healthy that you bury yourself in work and school.”

  “Good thing it doesn’t matter what you think. It’s my life, Ben.”

  “Yeah. Sure. It’s your life.” I hop to my feet, unable to stop a scowl from creasing my mouth. “I’m taking a shower. I’d ask you to join me, but you’ve still got, what, three hundred more pages to read?” I gaze pointedly at the textbook in her lap before striding out of the living room.

  She doesn’t follow me, and I didn’t expect her to. The past three days have taught me that Maggie shuts down the moment I criticize her lifestyle.

  I enter the bathroom and rip off my T-shirt and jeans before stepping into the shower stall. As the warm water slides down my body, I dunk my head under the spray and release a frustrated groan. Why am I letting Maggie’s workaholic bullshit get to me, anyway? So what if she hardly goes out? That TV piece we just saw confirms that the media storm surrounding me is still going strong, which means I definitely need to stay out of sight for a while longer. Holing up here with Maggie is the perfect solution.

  I’ve never been one to duck and hide when troubles arise, but these past few days have reminded me of what life before fame had been like. It brings back memories of growing up in Ohio, of being able to take a girl out without it winding up in the tabloids, of being able to sing along to the Beach Boys without a sound bite popping up on the Internet. I want to hold on to this unburdened feeling for as long as I can, to think about someone other than myself for a while. I don’t know where it is all heading, but for the moment I need to be around her. Need that feeling of being a regular person.

  But it pisses me off to see her driving herself to the point of exhaustion. I like her. Fuck, I like her a lot. And what I don’t like is seeing someone I like wasting her life away. I feel compelled to do something, but how the hell can I break down Maggie’s impenetrable devotion to her job and her annoying tendency to choose responsibility over fun?

  I stand in the shower for a moment, letting the water course down my body, and then the answer comes to me.

  With a grin, I shut off the water and step onto the fluffy pink bathmat. I wrap a towel around my waist and head for Maggie’s bedroom, where I sit at the edge of the bed and do a quick search on my phone. Once I find the number, I glance over to make sure I closed the door and then dial.

  “The Olive Martini. Trisha speaking.”

  “Trisha, hey.” I lower my voice, check the door again, and say, “I’m calling about Maggie Reilly.”

  “Who is this?” The voice on the other end thickens with suspicion.

  I falter for a moment before responding with, “My name’s Tony, and—”

  “Tony? Oh my God! I didn’t recognize your voice.”

  Shit. I hadn’t banked on any of the other wait staff knowing the infamous Tony.

  “Uh, I’m trying to speak quietly. Maggie’s in the other room and I don’t want her to overhear.”

  “Oh. Okay. Well, how are you doing? What’s up?”

  “I’m doing great, Trish.” I really hope Tony calls her Trish. Sounds like a Tony thing to do. “How’s life treating ya?”

  “Can’t complain. Actually, I’m lying. Life would be a lot better if I wasn’t spending my Friday night serving a bunch of rude theater snobs.”

  I chuckle. “Doesn’t sound like fun,” I agree. “Anyway, the reason I’m calling is—”

  “You said it was about Maggie?”

  “It is.” I send another covert look to the door. “Trish. I need you to do me a really big favor…”

  18

  Maggie

  “I want to take you on a trip.”

  My head snaps up, not so much from Ben’s sudden reappearance but because of his random declaration. He approaches the couch, clad in a pair of jeans and a navy-blue long-sleeved shirt, his hair still damp from the shower. His jaw is tight and his mouth is set in a firm line, as if he came out here expecting a fight and is prepared to win it.

  His words hang in the air. A trip? Hadn’t he listened to a word I said ten minutes ago?

  “I don’t have time to take—”

  “I’m not talking a week-long vacation,” he interrupts, catching the disbelief in my eyes. “I’m talking one night. Well, two, since we’d leave tonight and come back Saturday morning.”

  “I’m working tomorrow.”

  “So call in sick.” He offers a small shrug. “C’mon, babe, it
’s just one shift.”

  My jaw tenses at his flippant tone. “I can’t lie to my manager about being sick. That’s bad karma.”

  “Maggie.”

  “Ben.”

  I don’t like the way he’s looking at me. The secretive smile playing on his sexy lips tells me he’s up to something.

  Before I can further analyze his sly expression, my phone rings. Grateful for the interruption, I lean over and grab it from the coffee table. Trisha’s name flashes on the screen, along with two new voicemails alerts. I’d turned off the ringer earlier because three irritating telemarketers had called one after the other.

  “Hello?” I avoid eye contact with Ben as I press the phone to my ear.

  “Hey, it’s me.”

  Since Trisha rarely calls me, my guard instantly shoots up a few feet. “What’s up, Trish?”

  “I need a favor—could you switch shifts with me? I’ll work for you tomorrow night if you do Saturday.”

  Something is fishy, all right.

  My head swivels in Ben’s direction, but he seems completely uninterested in my conversation.

  Of course, he also happens to be an actor, so what he seems to be isn’t all that reliable.

  “Why can’t you work Saturday?” I ask, my eyes narrowing.

  “You won’t even believe it.”

  “Try me.”

  “Lou’s taking me to see a Broadway show!” Trisha replies in a bubbly voice. “And it was his idea. Isn’t that amazing?”

  “What show?”

  “Huh?”

  “What show is he taking you to see?”

  “The Puppeteer.”

  If I’ve caught Trisha in a lie, I have no freaking clue. My ignorance about Broadway musicals, not to mention most pop culture, is definitely the proverbial thorn in my side. I’ll have to look it up later. But I find it hard to believe that Trisha would magically want to cover my shift two minutes after Ben announces his plan to take me on a trip.

  “So will you do it, Mags?”

  “Uh…”

  “Please say yes,” she begs. “You know how much I complain about Lou never paying attention to me. Please let me have this.”

  A sigh lodges in the back of my throat. Damn it. The guilt card works every time.

  “Sure, of course I’ll take your shift.”

  “Great! I owe you a million!”

  You bet your ass you do. I hang up the phone and turn my attention back to Ben. “So,” I say slowly. “Apparently I now have the day off tomorrow.”

  His features reveal nothing. “Huh. Looks like fate decided to step in.”

  “Fate,” I repeat, unable to stop the mistrustful cloud swirling in my brain.

  He beams at me. “So does this mean the trip is on?”

  I take great pleasure in bursting his hope balloon. “Nope.”

  Pop. The balloon dissolves into an annoyed glimmer. “Why the hell not?”

  “I volunteer five days a week. It’s a requirement for school, remember?” I shrug. “Fridays and Saturdays are two of those days.”

  His broad shoulders sag with disappointment. He looks really cute when he’s dejected, but I refuse to let that puppy-dog gaze get to me. In fact, this is a conversation I’ve had so many times, it’s almost soothing. The men in my life make demands, my schedule gets in the way, and they leave in a huff. It’s a routine now, and the one thing I always gain the most comfort from is my routine.

  I soften my tone. “You could still take that trip to…wherever it is you wanted us to go.”

  “I guess you’ll never know,” he mutters. For the first time since I’ve met him, he’s lost his confident aura.

  The weird pang of guilt in my gut is unwelcome, so I try to ignore it by checking my voicemail. The first one is from a telemarketer, but the second message was left by my supervisor at the Broger Center.

  “Maggie, it’s Gloria. I really hope you get this message before you show up for your shift tomorrow.”

  An uneasy feeling climbs up my throat.

  “Libby Martin, you know, the little girl with the freckles? Well, she’s come down with the chicken pox. I know you haven’t had any contact with her lately, but some of the other kids have and they’re showing symptoms too. So if you’ve never had the chicken pox, I’d advise that you don’t come in tomorrow.”

  Fuck you, Fate.

  “Actually, don’t come for at least a week, just to be safe. The infectious period is about five days, but chicken pox could be dangerous for adults. So stay away if you’ve never had it, kiddo. Call me to let me know.”

  I listen to the soft click, and then the automated voice announces I have no other messages.

  “Everything okay?” Ben asks warily. He must have noticed my bleak expression.

  “Chicken pox,” I mumble.

  “What?”

  “There’s a chicken pox outbreak at the center. My boss said if I never had it as a kid, I shouldn’t report to work for a week or so.”

  “Ah. I see.” His lips begin to twitch. “So…just out of curiosity…have you ever had the chicken pox?”

  I make an inaudible noise, then set my jaw so tight my teeth hurt.

  “What was that?” he drawls. “I couldn’t make out your answer.”

  I meet his gaze and see the amusement dancing in his striking blue eyes. “No, Ben, I’ve never had the chicken pox.”

  “What a shame.” His grin breaks free. “So how long will it take you to pack?”

  19

  Maggie

  “Where exactly are we going?” I grumble an hour later. Ben and I are in the back of a cab headed for the airport.

  “It’s a surprise,” he says mysteriously.

  “Did I mention I don’t like surprises?”

  “No, and mentioning it now won’t get you any answers.” He reaches over and squeezes my lower thigh, and I try to ignore the jolt of desire between my legs. “Trust me, you’ll like it. I pulled so many strings I could put the New York Philharmonic out of business.”

  “That’s on you, bud. I never asked to be kidnapped.”

  Ben rolls his eyes. “Shut it, Red. You agreed to come, fair and square.”

  He’s right. And to be honest, I’m still confused about why I hadn’t put up more of a fight. I’m sure I could’ve come up with more excuses for why I shouldn’t leave town, but after my schedule freed up so suddenly, I caved to Ben’s pleas and packed a stupid overnight bag.

  After the driver drops us off at the International terminal at La Guardia, Ben takes my bag despite my protests, slinging it over his shoulder. “Ready?”

  “How can I be ready when I don’t know what to be ready for?”

  He grins and pulls the brim of his Yankees cap low to his forehead. I don’t blame him for snapping into incognito mode. Hell, I encourage it. We’re surrounded by people, and I’m not keen on the idea of him being recognized while I’m at his side

  We’re met at the end of the taxi stand by a random blonde whose job title—and employer—I’m unsure of. Does she work for Ben? She introduces herself as Sarah and ushers us onto a small private shuttle. As we drive away from the terminal, I shoot Ben a puzzled look.

  “Seriously, where are we going?” I insist.

  “Be patient, Red.”

  I make an irritated sound, but force myself to stop asking questions. Arguing with Ben Barrett is about as effective as arguing with a pony.

  A few minutes later, we pull up in front of a large private hangar, its doors gaping open to reveal a sleek white airplane.

  My jaw drops. “Please don’t tell me this is yours,” I accuse.

  “I’m not that rich,” he replies in a mild tone. “But it’s a beauty, eh? The Gulfstream IV—sexiest jet ever built, in my opinion. A friend’s letting me borrow it.”

  Borrow it? He talks about borrowing a jet as if it’s a Honda or a fucking Toyota. As we hop out of the shuttle, I can’t take my eyes off the plane. Whether or not Ben owns it suddenly becomes a moot point.
That he knows someone who does is enough to leave me wide-eyed and speechless.

  People actually live like this? I’ve always known it, but seeing it is an entirely different matter altogether. Seeing it brings a tiny spark of resentment to my gut. I have nothing against someone who can afford a private jet, but it’s just a reminder of everything I don’t have. I don’t aspire to be a jet-setting billionaire who goes through hundred dollar bills like mints, but it would be nice not to worry about saving every penny to pay for basic essentials. The person who owns this plane probably only worries about when it’ll be time to trade in for a newer model.

  Ben exchanges a few words with the pilot, who greets us at the bottom of the steps by the jet’s door. Meanwhile, I sweep my gaze along the length of the aircraft. In gold lettering, scrawled across the side, are the words “PAPA G.”

  Jeez, does this monstrosity belong to a mobster?

  I seriously hope not.

  “We’re good to go,” Ben tells me, shifting my overnight bag to his left shoulder so he can put his arm around me again.

  I manage a nod and follow him up the steps leading into the cabin. Inside, I openly gawk at our surroundings. There are about twelve seats in the cabin. White leather, with gold seatbelts that—wait, those can’t be real diamonds studded along the buckles, right? Each pair of seats face another, and bolted onto the floor between them are honest-to-God poker tables. With green felt and everything.

  “Who owns this?” I blurt out.

  “Papa G.”

  “Who?”

  “Papa G.” Ben furrows his brows. “You know, the rapper?”

  My expression remains blank, causing him to sigh.

  “You honestly don’t know who Papa G is? LA gangsta rap? ‘Where’s my Bling, Bitch?’”

  I’ve entered the Twilight Zone. Only thing missing is the creepy music and a guy named Mulder…or is that a different show?