by Bromberg, K
DeeDee: I don’t want to bug you with everything that’s going on, but . . .
Private Caller: I’d like to do a feature on you for the magazine . . .
Ryder: I’m going to kill him . . .
DeeDee: I’m baking from my house until Ryder can figure out pricing . . .
Ryder: I’m trying to get it handled . . .
DeeDee: The damn oven is on the fritz again, should I . . .
I’m on my feet instantly, number dialed, pacing the room as I wait for her to pick up. Unable to look at my texts while calling out, I try to make sense of the words I caught a glimpse of. Why is Ryder going to kill Mitch? Did the oven finally die? A feature? And interview? Maybe Ryder’s and Hayes’s theories were correct.
But that can’t be. The wedding was just yesterday. The tide wouldn’t be able to turn that quickly.
“Saylor?”
“Dee! I’m so sorry. I’ve had my phone off. What’s going on?”
“I’m so sorry. I don’t mean . . . I shouldn’t have called with everything that’s happening—”
“Tell me about the oven?” She sounds so flustered, and because I know she rambles I cut her off, needing to get to the heart of the matter. My mind shifts from paradise to reality and work in an instant. My norm.
“It’s kaput. We had an order come in for a large birthday event and halfway through it started smoking and then there was a small fire and—”
“Fire?” My voice is shrill. Panic invoked.
“It’s fine. Ryder helped me sort it out. I’m just cooking from my house at night and bringing them in the morning so the pastry cases remain stocked.”
My head spins over how this can all happen in the short time I’ve been gone. “Dee . . .” I don’t know what to say. My heart and my reason war against each other over the next step to take. I choose the tried and true, the one thing I know will be there regardless of what happens. “I feel like such an asshole. I’m here traipsing around paradise and you’re dealing with all of this. I’m heading to the airport now to try and get an earlier flight out so I can . . . I don’t know . . . not feel so helpless and like such a jerk leaving you like this.”
“A couple of hours isn’t going to change anything. Ryder’s been great. He’s helping with the oven and dealing with everyone out front waiting for you to get back.”
“Everyone out front?” My feet falter. What the hell is she talking about?
“Don’t worry about it. He’s got it under control. You’ve got enough on your plate that we’re glad to handle it and help out.”
“Wait! Who’s out front?”
“The reporters.”
Reporters? “What reporters?”
“The ones that found out about you and Hayes.”
Huh? Why do reporters care about Hayes and me? Then it dawns on me. While I may look at Hayes and see the boy who stole cookies from me after school, the rest of the world looks at him and sees him as a celebrity. One who flaunted his name around the resort this weekend on my behalf. And apart from the hotel guests approaching him for autographs or photographs, I was so consumed with him I hadn’t given much consideration to the ramifications of being alongside him as a public figure.
How stupid was I to not think about this? About the outside world and the attention he brought us? Or how easily a photo can be uploaded to social media and shared thousands of times? All of it?
And by the sound of DeeDee’s comments, someone here might have done just that. Instead, I was so focused on spending every damn moment with Hayes, working through our past, soaking him up, and then falling more head over heels in love with him than I ever thought possible.
But this is a stark reminder how love can blind me temporarily to life’s reality.
“Okay . . . um . . . I’m trying to wrap my head around this. I just finished packing and I’m going to try and get an earlier flight and . . .” I stop, pinch the bridge of my nose and fight the sting of frustrated tears. “Hang tight. I’ll be home as soon as possible.”
We hang up and I force myself to take a deep breath. To not berate myself for having a weekend away from the bakery where I was able to not think about work, breaking ovens, or profit margins. And to remind myself that the R&R was deserved after how hard I’ve been working.
Plus, I closed the door on my life with Mitch and reopened another full of possibility with Hayes. How can I hate myself for that?
But reporters? Seriously? I guess I need to get used to this. The upside? Maybe I’ll get some free publicity from it for Sweet Cheeks.
“I don’t give a flying fuck, Benji. Are you fucking kidding me? You thought I’d be okay with this? Since when are you allowed to make these decisions without my input?”
Hayes’s voice breaks through the silence. I jump when something slams on the counter. Uh-oh.
“Do you get what you did? What I’ve spent the last what feels like fucking forever trying to get back? No, I don’t want to listen to the whys. Screw the money. Screw the NDA. Don’t you get it? It doesn’t matter. None of it does if you just fucked it all up . . . I just . . . I can’t . . .You know what? I’m hanging up before I say something I’ll regret . . . Yeah. I doubt it.”
I wait inside my room and wonder what’s happened to get him so upset. With my own thoughts frazzled over Sweet Cheeks, I hesitate whether to go out and ask if he’s okay.
And the moment to approach him is lost when I hear him mutter again. “Pick up the fucking phone.” I can hear his feet pacing on the wooden floors. Ten steps, then a pause, and then ten steps back.
His voice is muffled when he speaks next. I think he says a name but wherever he’s paced to, I can’t hear it clearly. And there’s something deep, down inside of me that suddenly is dreading whatever is going on.
“Haven’t you caused enough trouble?” His anger is palpable. The threat so apparent that I feel sorry for whoever is on the other end of the phone. His chuckle is a mixture of sarcasm and fury. “The charade’s over. I’m not doing this anymore . . . No. That’s bullshit and you know it . . . I was trying to be the nice guy. Trying to help you out. Help you save face at my expense . . . And you know what? I’m so done. So over your constant crap to feed your need for attention. I turn my phone off for a few days and when I don’t respond, you pull this bullshit? Fuck the money. Fuck the movie . . . My image? I don’t give a shit about my image. I wouldn’t have agreed to this if I had. But you know what? I care about hers. And everything else about her . . . No. You used her. Just like you’ve used me. But you used her without asking. Without thinking about how your little slip of the tongue to save yourself from the heat was going to fuck her over. You threw her into the goddamn fire to save your selfish self.”
His voice escalates in pitch, in anger, in exasperation, with each and every word he speaks and all I can do is stand against the wall where I’ve moved into the hall and wait. I hope Hayes hasn’t missed something major to do with a movie or a premiere or whatever the hell actors worry about while being here.
And yet at the same time, intuition tells me this conversation has something to do with me. I’m not sure how that’s even possible and yet I do.
“Well it backfired. Big time . . . You did it without permission. You leaked the comment. Let people assume what they wanted and you never once thought about anyone but you. Fucking typical, now isn’t it? Must have not been getting enough attention and so you went and . . . NO!” His voice thunders into the house, echoing off the floors and down the hallway. “I loved you, Jenna. But this? This is why I’m over you. Why I’m done selling my soul to keep your secrets and fuck my life up in the process. Fuck the non-disclosure. Let them pull it. Let them sue me. See if I care . . .”
Hayes keeps speaking but I don’t hear any of it because all I keep hearing is I love you, Jenna. Or was it loved? The phrase repeats over and over and over in my head. Those three words he didn’t say to me
I love you, Jenna.
But he did to her.
&n
bsp; My feet move on their own. My heart so full it was ready to burst ten minutes ago now feeling like it will implode.
Hayes
Rage like I’ve never felt before pounds through my veins. Not since that night on the Schilling farm when I saw Danny Middleton forcing himself on Saylor have I been this livid.
It all comes back to Saylor, doesn’t it?
Jenna drones on in my ear yet I don’t hear her bullshit. Can’t listen to another one of her endless self-serving lies. It’s amazing how she used to mean something to me.
And now she means nothing. Nothing except the reason Saylor may walk the other way.
And to think I’m the dumb-shit who went along with this idea. Signed the damn NDA and got roped into her bullshit. But in the end, none of it fucking matters because she screwed me anyway.
“I had to do it. There was press snooping around and so I threw them a few hints to throw them off.”
A few hints? More like Here’s Saylor. She’s the homewrecker, served on a goddamn platter.
“I loved you, Jenna. But this? This is why I’m over you. Why I’m done selling my soul to keep your secrets and fuck my life up in the process.”
“You can’t mean that.” Panic fills her voice. “What about my dad? What about the film? You signed a—”
“Fuck the non-disclosure. Let them pull it. Let them sue me. See if I care.” I pace the room, free hand pulling down on the back of my neck as my mind reels an endless loop.
“NO! Please, I can’t fix it but I’ll make it up to you . . .”
When I turn to pace back toward the kitchen, I come face to face with Saylor. Her hair is piled on top of her head, her pink lips are parted, and her cheeks flushed.
But her eyes are swimming with an ocean of hurt.
Oh, fuck. She knows.
“Saylor.” I throw my phone onto the counter without a thought to Jenna still spewing her bullshit excuses.
“I love you, Jenna?”
Fuck me. Of all the things I said, it’s par for the course she heard that one the loudest. She’s most likely already made it to be something other than how I meant it. And before I can even answer her unspoken question, her shoulders have squared. She’s on the defensive.
And that means her temper isn’t far behind.
“It’s not what you think. Let me explain.” I’m not sure which one I should say first so I say both as fast as possible, knowing I need to stop this before it starts.
“Not what I think?” She folds her arms across her chest. Shifts her feet. Clenches her jaw. “I’m trying to be calm here, Hayes, and not jump to conclusions but I’m having a hard time. Maybe you should explain why you’re so upset. Why you’re talking about image and doing something to someone which sure as hell sounds like you’re referring to me . . . and why you told Jenna you love her when I’m really hoping you actually said you loved her.”
“Jenna’s a mess.” I start the only place I can because the space between Saylor and me feels like the fucking arctic chill is freezing me out, and so I don’t have time to waste. “She’s been in and out of drug treatment centers for the better part of the last year and a half.” Her eyes widen. Surprise fills them and thank fuck because it’s a whole helluva lot better to see the surprise than the hurt that was there a few seconds ago.
“It’s Hollywood’s best-kept secret. Everyone knows but no one dares talk about Paul Dixon’s daughter and her little nose candy problem. Shit, I didn’t even know about it for the first six months of our relationship. We were working a ridiculous schedule on The Grifter, and I was either too tired or too preoccupied to notice the signs.”
I think back to how it all started. The mornings she’d miss her call time. The endless excuses. The erratic mood swings.
“I tried to be patient with her. Thought I could help her. I don’t know.” I sigh. Run a hand through my hair. I’m restless. “I was in way over my head, but I liked her. Liked having someone who understood the pressure of the job. It didn’t hurt we were on a remote location in Vancouver so we mostly had each other to pass the time.”
“What does any of this have to do with right now? With what you said? I thought you guys broke up a few months ago.”
I chuckle. It’s a self-deprecating sound that reflects how stupid I feel now over agreeing to it. “To the outsider, we did, but in all honesty we were done way before that.” Saylor shakes her head and tries to process shit I don’t even understand. “We completed the film, and when we came back to Los Angeles she was out of control. She went off on the director, fired her agent, and publicly bad-mouthed both. She barged in on a movie her dad was filming, accused him of all kinds of unspeakable shit and embarrassed the hell out of him. Then in a horribly bad move, she pissed off the studio with an interview she gave where she criticized the film and the decisions being made surrounding it. Suddenly the film the studio had slated as their blockbuster of the summer was surrounded by bad press. There’s no other word for the damage she’d done but fucking brutal. We had to stage an intervention that ended up with her checked into a rehab facility. Little did I know it had been her third or fourth time there in as many years.”
“I remember the bad press about the film. But didn’t realize any of this—”
“No one does. The studio was pissed. The backers and producers who gave huge sums of investment capital to the studios to fund their budget were pissed. Especially since this film’s budget was one of their largest in the studio’s history, they were willing to do whatever it took to make sure its success wasn’t risked before it even released. But her interview got a lot of press. She was a loose cannon and the studio wasn’t sure they wanted to risk losing the marketing budget for a movie when the lead actress seemed determined to undermine it. They talked about tabling it or sending straight to Netflix, but they knew they’d lose their ass. Some of the backers threatened to pull their money from the project if the studio didn’t get Jenna’s antics under control. And little did I know that some of the backers knew her history because they ran in the same circles as her dad. And that shared history led to them inserting an addendum in her contract that very few people knew about—me included.” I shake my head in frustration. Remember how fucking furious I was when the caveat was revealed to me the day she entered rehab. “It stated that if she didn’t stay sober, she agreed to forfeit her advance and all earnings from the film. And in turn, mine in a sense. To say I was a little blindsided is an understatement especially considering she hadn’t stayed sober. Shit, the studio went into panic mode trying to figure out how to hide Jenna’s breach of contract from the backers.”
“Image is everything,” Saylor murmurs, her eyes wide and interest piqued, as she sits on the top step of the stairs. At least I still have her attention.
“Yeah, well the money men thought so too. And the big thing was the studio wanted Jenna’s little trip to rehab kept under wraps. They knew if the backers found out she’d broken the terms of her contract, they’d pull the remainder of the funds, which in turn meant less marketing, less everything . . . including us getting paid until after it’s released and there’s ticket sale money being generated.”
“They can’t do that.”
My laugh is rich. I love her naïveté about the industry and wish I was just as oblivious most days. “I may be successful and a big-draw name, Say, but the money men . . . they have a lot more control in my world than people think. They give the money to the studios and since they’re the ones shouldering all the risk, the actors must deliver on all aspects: acting, promoting, public relations. They hold all the cards. So the day after Jenna goes into rehab, I’m called into a meeting where I’m told the details of her contract, and the repercussions for both her and me if the backers find out she’s using again. Talk about a cluster fuck. I freaked while my lawyers scrambled to find a loophole in my contract and demanded answers why I wasn’t told this prior to filming. At the same time, Jenna’s lawyers were in my face begging for me to stick it out to
save the film. It was a nightmare I couldn’t get out of without seriously damaging important business relationships and throwing a lot of hard work down the drain. During the chaos, they asked me and anyone who knew anything to sign a non-disclosure agreement. They didn’t want word getting out and ruining the chances of the movie being released. They were banking on it to be the blockbuster that would boost their ever-waning profit margins in this constantly growing NetFlix, AppleTV, and online streaming world. They thought if we kept Jenna’s rehab stint under lock and key and her image squeaky clean, we could pull it off. They released old pictures of us to the press or planted stories in Page Six. All kinds of stupid shit to hide she was in rehab. Anything to keep the perception alive that we were costars in love, on and off screen. Then after the movie releases next month, we could call off our fake relationship.”
“Wait a minute. Your studio asked you to pretend to be a couple for her image’s sake?” She sounds dumbfounded. Just like I am most days in this industry.
“Yes. But she didn’t keep her nose clean. A few months ago she got into it again with her dad and he basically disowned her until she straightened her shit up. He knew the signs, knew she was using again, and wanted to show her some tough love, I guess. She came to my place crying hysterically and lost her mind when she saw Tessa was there.” I think of the scene. Jenna’s unpredictable actions and crazy temper. How she tried to hit Tessa and then me. Threw shit. Broke stuff. “That’s when I realized that Jenna had an unhealthy attachment to me and that I needed to start distancing myself from her. It was as if she believed all of the bullshit stories being fed to the public about how we were still together. It kind of freaked me out, Say. I suddenly realized we—meaning the studio and how I went along with it—were so very wrong in how we handled the situation. And I’m not sure if it was the pressure of her father’s ultimatums or realizing she and I were really all an act, but the night after I kicked her out, she attempted suicide.”
“Hayes.” And just like that, the sound of compassion in her voice tells me she just might not unravel when I tell her how she plays into all of this. Then again . . .
