I pat his face. “You survived six long years. I think you can last five days.”
“You know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think you’ve got a vibe in your bag and time to kill before your flight.”
I stare at him. “Jesus, Jack, just because I fucked you once in a public toilet doesn’t mean I want to do it again.”
He grins. “Yeah, baby, you do. Get your ass out of the car.”
With that, he exits the car and comes around to my side to open my door.
While he does that, I make all the plans under the sun to throw those bossy pants of his away.
33
Jack
“Lorelei told me you dropped over to see her on the weekend,” Ashton says early Monday morning as I sit by the river having my first coffee for the day. It’s Sunday night where he is, and he’s about to board a flight to New York. He called me from the airport for a quick catch-up five minutes ago.
“Yeah, we had lunch.” I squint to avoid the sun in my eyes. “She grilled me on how I’m coping with stuff at the moment, and then spent the rest of my visit trying to get me to agree to hang out with her while Jessica is away. That woman is a fucking keeper, Ashton.”
“How are you coping? I don’t remember a time when you were everywhere like you are now. It looks fucking rough.”
It is rough, and I’m pretty fucking sure I’m going to lose the role in Jagged Point. I don’t read the shit on social media, but Rose keeps me informed as to what’s being posted. The reports now centre on the fact that Jessica has left me, and that I’m drinking my way through the separation.
It fucking pisses me off that these assholes can get away with writing pure fiction and spinning it to look like the truth. They publish lies and manipulate photos to use as evidence, and the world fucking buys into it while we have to find ways to deal with the fallout.
I let out a long breath while doing my best to ignore the pressure in my chest.
“It is rough,” I say, “but I’m okay.” I’m not lying. I could do without all this shit going on, but I’m okay. When he turns silent, I take it as him questioning my answer. “You don’t need to worry about me. My publicist has this under control, and my therapist has upped our call schedule. I’m handling my shit.”
I don’t blame Ashton for being concerned, but between all the people worrying over me, I’m ready for all of this concern to come to an end. The bright light in it, though, is Jessica. I never hear worry in her voice or see it in her eyes when she calls me from New York. She asks me how I am, she accepts what I tell her, and she moves on. It’s the best damn feeling in the world to know my woman has faith in me.
“Good to hear,” Ashton says, sounding a little distracted. “Fuck, I’ve got a call coming in that I have to take.”
“Go. I’ll see you when you get home.”
He disconnects and I reach for my coffee while thinking over my day ahead. I have some work emails to go through, and then I plan on doing some writing. I also need to get hold of my agent. That fucker has been avoiding my calls over the weekend.
I finish my coffee and am about to head inside when my phone rings. I’m impressed to see it’s Rodney while feeling trepidation over answering the call.
“This can’t be good news,” I answer. “Nothing good ever comes from a Sunday call.”
“It’s not good news, Jack. You’ve been dropped from the movie.”
The words I haven’t wanted to hear crowd my mind, and the coiled spring in my chest winds itself even tighter.
It presses against my ribs.
It expands, growing bigger while coiling tighter.
Crushing my lungs.
You’ve been dropped from the movie.
My breaths turn shallow as my lungs struggle to work.
I’ve been telling myself I’m okay for days. And I thought I was, but maybe I’m not.
Fuck.
This is the hard part of all this shit. It’s the thinking I’m doing okay, like honestly believing that, and then discovering, when shit comes crashing down, that I’m not.
This is the point at which I usually find a bottle of whisky and a friend to share it with. That’s not an option this time. It’s not even fucking close to an option. I meant every word I said to Jessica when I told her I would never quit on myself, and I don’t intend on ever breaking that promise.
“Jack? Are you still there?” Rodney says.
I grip my phone harder. “Yeah, I’m here.”
“You heard what I said, right?”
You’ve been dropped from the movie.
How could I fucking miss it?
“Yeah. Who are they giving the part to?”
“Mark Jackson.”
My brain connects the dots, and they all lead back to the person I hoped like fuck they wouldn’t.
After Jessica brought up her theory that someone might be intentionally trying to ruin me, I mulled that over. I had a few ideas of who it could be if it were true, but I pushed them aside, not wanting to believe anyone would actually go out of their way to hurt me like this. The fact it is who it is fucking slays me.
“Tell me, Rodney, did you fight for me?”
He’s silent for a moment. “What?” Yeah, he fucking knows what I’m asking.
“Did you go the fuck in there and fight for me so I could keep this role?” I sit forward, anger hacking my chest apart. “Did you do your fucking job?”
“I don’t know what the fuck has come over you, bu—”
“Yeah, you fucking do.” I push up off the chair and stride towards the edge of Jessica’s property, towards the river, as that coil in my chest finally, fucking finally, snaps. “Tell me something else, how long have you and Belinda been working to fuck me over?”
“You know what, Jack? I’m going to give you some free advice here. Free because you’re no longer my client. This is a small town you work in. You might wanna stop now before you burn any more bridges.”
“Oh, I am more than fucking good burning this bridge, Rodney. And yeah, I know it’s a small town. I’ve worked in the fucker for far longer than you have. My advice to you and Belinda is to watch your fucking backs. I’ve never bought into the bullshit of Hollywood, never made threats against anyone, never fucking worked to remove someone from a film of mine, but I’m going to make an exception for you two. As of now, you two are on my shit list.”
He barks out a laugh. “You think that’s a threat? Your name is mud. No one wants to work with you again, Jack. Good fucking luck hurting either of us.”
The line goes dead, and I work like fuck not to hurl my fucking phone in the river.
I fail, and a moment later I’m fucking phoneless.
Fuuuck.
It’s a good thing there’s no wall in front of me. I’d punch the fuck out of it if there was.
That’s two fucking agents I’ve gone through in a year. And a manager who my agent encouraged me to hire, most likely so he could work with her to get me off the movie his other client wanted in on. No fucking wonder Belinda was sending me to all those fucking parties filled with booze and coke.