by Cat Johnson
I’d spent too much damn time naked on camera during the movie with Sierra to not be in top physical shape.
Even with as insulted as I was, I didn’t argue with him. I’d fought many a battle with the man and whether Walt was right or wrong, it was a debate I knew I wouldn’t win.
Folding my arms across my chest, I said, “Fine. I’ve gone soft. That’s why I’m here. So you can whip me back into shape.”
Walt’s age-creased face lit with a rare smile. “A’ighty, then. Let’s do this. You got your equipment?”
“Yup.” I held up the strap of the bag I’d had slung over one shoulder.
Walt nodded. “Good. Suit up.” He spun and headed toward the office.
“Wait. Who am I fighting?” I called at his back.
Without turning around, Walt let out a chuckle. “You’ll see.”
Sitting on a bench so I could dig out my gear, I had to hope it wasn’t actually Walt I’d be in the ring with. There were too many things wrong with that scenario to even consider.
But whoever the hell it was I’d be squaring off against, it felt damn good to be back again. To be here.
It was only a few years ago that I’d been at this gym almost every day of the week, either helping out Walt or training.
That was back when World Gym in Rancho Cucamonga had been more of a home to me than my foster parents’ house.
Back before those two young and unknown filmmakers walked in and plucked me out of the ring to play the role of a fighter in their low budget indie film.
Los Angeles to San Bernardino County wasn’t all that far as the crow flies, but it might as well have been a world apart. Just like my current life in Hollywood felt nothing at all like my past as a foster kid in Chino.
But for today, it felt good to pretend, just for a bit, that first film had never won at Sundance. That On the Ropes hadn’t been my golden ticket to Hollywood, opening doors I’d never considered before then. That I didn’t have an agent and a multi-million dollar contract with a studio for my third big budget film . . . even if it was a freaking western.
Today, I could be normal again—
Motion among the crowd of photographers camped out on the sidewalk in front of the gym’s tall glass windows caught my attention.
Nope. Definitely not normal.
I sighed.
Time to punch something.
FOUR
JAMEY
“Jamey Garret! What the fuck were you thinking?”
Frowning, I pulled the cell away from my ear and checked the display.
Yup, the caller ID showed it was Jerry calling, but in the year and a half I’d known the man, I’d never once heard the F-bomb come out of his mouth.
What the hell could have happened to drive the man into this rant?
I’d been lying low since yesterday. No clubs. No women. Hell, I hadn’t even left the damn gym to get a hotel room or eat. We’d ordered food in and I’d spent the night crashing on the sofa in Walt’s office.
So what was this about? There was only one way to find out.
“Jerry, what are you talking about?” I asked.
“I guess you haven’t been online today.”
“No.” I’d happily been on a social media detox since I’d gotten here.
Jerry should count himself lucky I’d decided to turn on my cell phone at all. At one point I’d seriously considered leaving it off for the next few weeks.
“The studio is flipping the hell out. They’re threatening to fine you.”
“Fine me for what?” I still didn’t know what I’d done.
“Your contract has a mortality clause and you violated it.”
Mortality clause? That sounded grim. I frowned. “A what?”
Jerry huffed out a sigh. “Do you even read the contracts I send you before you sign them?”
“No. That’s what you do. I figure if there was anything bad in there, you wouldn’t let me sign it.”
“Of course I wouldn’t let you sign a bad contract, but this—it’s a pretty standard clause.”
Frustrated and still confused, I let out a breath. “So how about you explain it to me now so I can stop violating it, okay?”
“Fine.”
I could practically hear the scowl on Jerry’s face. I didn’t understand what the hell he was so pissed about. I was the one who apparently couldn’t go anywhere or do anything without getting yelled at and risking a fine, not him.
“It says you can’t do anything that can cause bodily injury or death until the movie is done.”
What the fuck? That was a ridiculous clause. Movie or no movie, why would I do something that would get me killed?
I rolled my eyes. “I wasn’t planning on it, so what’s the problem?”
“Well, there are pictures all over the internet of you getting the shit beat out of you in a boxing ring and they’re dated yesterday.”
“Oh.” Finally understanding dawned.
That’s what this was about? My jumping in the ring for a couple of rounds like I’d done daily just a few years ago?
And I hadn’t gotten the shit beat out of me, but my opponent had given me a good fight. Walt had called in one of his best fighters to teach me a lesson, but I’d held my own and I was proud of it.
But I knew the paparazzi and their devious ways. They always managed to make things look worse than the reality. It didn’t matter what the situation actually was.
They must have had their lenses up against the windows.
I had taken a few good punches to the face, in spite of my head guard. It probably looked pretty bad in the photos.
Maybe the studio did have a leg to stand on with this mortality clause. Going a few rounds in the ring with one of Walt’s guys most likely wouldn’t kill me, but it might break my nose or something. And that could alter my appearance before the start of filming.
I’d already experienced a director’s wrath first hand over something similar when Sierra’s boyfriend had done some damage to my face with his fist after a misunderstanding.
When a Navy SEAL punches you in a fit of rage, no amount of makeup is going to cover the swelling. The director had absolutely flipped. We’d had to get real creative and juggle the schedule so my broken face didn’t mess up the continuity of the film.
Jerry might be a pain in the ass sometimes, but on this one point, I was willing to give in. “All right. No more sparring before the film. I promise. You can trust me.”
“Oh, I know I can, because you’re not going to be hanging around that place any more.”
“What?”
This was my life. My time. I might have signed away my rights to get punched in the face, but they couldn’t tell me where to go or who to see.
Walt was my friend. This gym was like home.
Adrenaline pumping, I clenched my jaw. “You can’t stop me—”
“You won’t be hanging out there anymore because you’re going to be learning how to ride.”
I let out a breath. This again. “I told you. I’ll be fine.”
“You don’t really have much credibility with the studio after this stunt of yours. They brought it up again. They want you working with an instructor before filming begins. They don’t want you falling off and breaking something that will delay—”
“That will delay production. Time is money. I know. I know.” I knew it all already and sighed. There went my break and my month of freedom. “Fine. Where do I go for these damn riding lessons?”
“I emailed you the address and the schedule an hour ago. Didn’t you get it?”
Gaze lifted to the ceiling in frustration, I said, “I told you I don’t check email while on break.”
“Jesus, Jamey. Work with me here.”
Frustrating Jerry almost smoothed over my anger at having how I spent my down time dictated by the studio. Not quite, but at least I wasn’t the only one miserable.
I drew in a breath and conceded. “I’ll check my email and go to your lessons.
”
“Do it now. It took a lot of convincing to get you back on the schedule after you missed yesterday. It’s going to cost you though. I had to throw in some extra cash to sweeten the deal.”
That figured. I not only had to do something I didn’t want to, I had to pay extra for it too.
“All right,” I agreed.
“You have to be there at three today. And don’t be late. She said if you miss one more lesson, that’s it.”
My head came up. “She?”
“Oh, that you hear when all the rest I say goes in one ear and out the other?” Jerry let out a sound of frustration. “And yes, your instructor is a female. But hands off. I’m serious, Jamey. That’s all we need is to have your career ruined with a sexual harassment lawsuit.”
I frowned. Sexual harassment? What the hell kind of man did Jerry think I was?
I’d had enough of his lectures and this phone call. “Good bye, Jerry.”
As I lowered the cell from my ear and was about to disconnect, I heard him yell, “Check your email!”
Now that I had a compelling reason to, I’d do just that.
Smiling, I wondered what my new riding teacher was going to be like.
These lessons might not be too bad after all.
FIVE
MAISIE
I pulled my cell phone out of the pocket of my jeans one more time.
Still no message from Jerry Whatever-His-Last-Name. Not to cancel today’s lesson, but not to confirm it either and after yesterday’s no show, I had made it clear I’d like a confirmation.
That figured. This was what I got for making a deal with some rich, stuck-up actor’s agent.
Why would some famous Hollywood bad boy bother to keep an appointment for a riding lesson with little old me?
Of course his time was more valuable than mine. Circle H was just a tiny horse farm in Norco, California.
It wasn’t like I had a hundred things to do today instead or anything. I let out a snort as I shoved the cell into my pocket.
No more waiting around for a message. I had to get to the rest of my chores and I’d already wasted too much of my day waiting on Mr. Hollywood and his agent.
At least I could relish in the fact I’d been right. I knew from personal experience, and this whole fiasco was only proving my theory, that it didn’t matter if they were the state rodeo champ or a big box office draw, a jackass was a jackass.
I spotted my father come out of the barn and strode toward him.
“Can we talk?”
He shook his head. “Can it wait? I gotta—”
“No.”
He paused at my interruption, brows raised. I knew him, knew this life. There was always something to do. A hundred somethings. If we waited for there to be nothing that needed to be done before we talked, it would never happen.
“Daddy. I want to talk now.” I crossed my arms over my chest.
He mirrored my stance and crossed his arms as he leaned back against the truck. “All right. Go on.”
“I don’t want to sell off any property. And I have a way so it won’t cost us a penny out of our savings to refinance the loan.”
“Oh, do you now? And what plan is that?”
“I took on a student. It’s going to earn us enough money to pay all the closing costs on a new loan so we can pay off what we owe on the old line of credit.”
His brows drew down as his forehead furrowed. “And how do you know how much I owe?”
I didn’t miss his use of the word I rather than we. My gaze dropped away from his stare. “I went to the bank.”
“And they told you what I owe? Your name’s not on the loan. It’s not even on the deed to the property.”
Uh oh.
I’d used my connections. My student’s mother worked for the bank. The woman had happily looked up the balance on the loan when I’d explained I was on an errand for my father. Explained . . . or lied.
If my father complained to the manager at the bank . . . would the woman get fired?
I couldn’t let that happen. Time for a diversion. “And that’s another thing. I want my name put on the deed. Daddy, it makes sense. God willing you’ll live to be a hundred and I’d be happy for it, but nobody knows what can happen and my name should be on the property. Just in case.”
A smile twitched at the corner of his lips. Finally, he said, “All right.”
I lifted my brows. “All right? That’s it? Just like that?”
He tipped his head. “Yup.”
No argument? That wasn’t like him. And what was that odd amused smirk doing on his face? It was disarming.
“Why are you being so agreeable? And why are you looking at me like that?” I narrowed my eyes, suspicious.
“Because you’re right. And, finally, you’re ready.”
Frowning, I asked, “What do you mean finally? And ready for what?”
“You finally grew a pair. And if you can stand up to me, I figure you can stand up to just about anybody.”
I was still confused. “What are you talking about?”
“I worried about what would happen to you, to the farm, if I wasn’t around to protect you. I was afraid you were too soft.”
Soft? I was the single mother of a ten-year old boy. I was not soft.
Insulted, I scowled. “Daddy, I’m no pushover.”
“I hope not, but with Dusty snooping around here all the time, I couldn’t be too sure.”
That was what this was about? Charlie’s father? I let out a laugh. “He’s here to see his son. Not me. We’re never getting back together, I can promise you. So if that’s what you’re worried about, don’t be.”
My father tipped his head. “Good.”
Jeez. I hadn’t realized I was still being judged for my poor choices from a decade ago by my own father.
My father needn’t have been concerned all this time. I’d learned the hard way—don’t trust any man who isn’t your daddy. Period.
The reminder of that lesson should be getting home from school any minute now. I pulled the cell out of my jeans and checked the time. My student should be arriving too. If he chose to show up this time.
It didn’t matter to me if he didn’t. I’d gotten smart. I negotiated a deal that I’d get paid for his lessons whether he showed or not.
That sounded pretty good to me, getting paid and not having to deal with a man so full of himself he couldn’t take the time to call to cancel.
“Mom!”
I turned to see my son trotting down the driveway.
I’d already faced the challenge of talking to my father about the loan, but I had a feeling that had been easy compared to dealing with an unhappy boy one week into his punishment.
God didn’t play fair with this one. Not one lick of the Holtz family showed through in Charlie. I’d given birth to him but the boy was the spitting image of his father.
He didn’t inherit my side’s blonde hair or blue eyes. Nope. He had dark hair and brown eyes just like Dusty. He was tall and lanky like his daddy too.
While the Holtz’s tended to be more compact, Charlie had size eleven feet at ten years old and was still growing. He already stood over me, but he would be taller than his grandpa too soon enough.
I let out a sigh, already weary without even knowing what had Charlie charging toward me. Though I could probably guess—the three-week grounding I’d administered for the stunt at Mrs. Winters’ place.
He arrived out of breath and looking panicked. “I have a book report due tomorrow and we have to take pictures of things and stuff like that.”
I lifted a brow, knowing where this would lead—Charlie trying to convince me to give him a reprieve on his punishment, which he was treating more like prison rather than just his not being able to hang out with his friends after school.
“What kind of things?” I asked.
He thrust a paper at me.
I took it and read, “Create a themed poster that showcases the book, including pictures
and vocabulary words.” I glanced up. “What’s the book?”
“Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.”
We’d read the book together last month. “Okay. So get to it.” I thrust the paper back at him, knowing full well this assignment had probably been issued a week or two ago, long before he was grounded. But in true Charlie fashion, he waited until the last night to do it.
He flopped his hands in the air. “How? All the other kids are going to the shopping center to buy stuff.”
And there it was, as expected, his justification to go out with his friends.
I shook my head. “Nope. You can do this right here. What will they find at the shopping center anyway? We already have poster board, markers and glue. We have stones here that could belong to a sorcerer. And paint if you want to paint them. We have twigs that look like magic wands. You can find pictures on the internet and print out them and the vocabulary words from the computer. I’m sure you’ll find everything you need right here.”
“Mom.” My son made the one syllable word into three, dragging it out in his misery.
Shaking my head, I repeated, “Nope.”
“Fine.” He scowled. “But when I fail it’s your fault.”
I lifted a brow. “No, it most definitely will not be my fault. And you’re not going to fail. I’ll look it over after dinner.” I extended the paper to him.
Snatching it out of my hand, he whined, “I have to do my chores first. I won’t have time—”
“You’ll have time if you get going and stop standing here complaining to me.”
With a huff, he stomped away as I stood torn between a sigh and a smile.
“Wow. You’re tough.”
I spun at the sound of the man’s voice I didn’t recognize.
“Hi, I’m Jamey Garret.” Shooting me a million-dollar smile, he extended his hand. “Are you my teacher?”
It took me a second but soon recognition struck.
This was the elusive Hollywood star who’d missed his lesson yesterday. But that wasn’t the shock. What was, was that this was also the man who’d almost run down me and Stardust on the studio lot.
And that made perfect sense. The man was so full of himself he couldn’t manage to drive or keep his appointments.
