Unbelievable.
“Looks like you have it all figured out,” I said.
Cooper snorted. “Right down to you scrubbing graffiti off park benches when you’re not with me,” he said under his breath. For some reason, the taunt sounded so much harsher coming from him, in his soft-spoken accent. I flipped my eyes across the table at him, doing my best to maintain my clenched smile. His face was red from holding back laughter.
And this was who was going to train me for my role? He could barely get through lunch without laughing at me.
“Back. Off,” I snapped. Then, to Dickson, I demanded. “Is he going to do this while he’s training me?”
“Of course not, he’s only being facetious,” Dickson said consolingly. Then his voice turned serious. “You’re really the only one for the part.”
His words were what every actress wanted to hear, even reluctant ones who didn’t want to return to work. James Dickson was a fair man; making Sleepless with him had been a breeze. And most importantly, I was broke. My agent was right, I needed this part.
“You two will iron out the details?” I asked. The question was aimed towards Dickson and Kevin, but for some reason, my eyes were locked on Surfer Boy. I didn’t like the way he was smirking at me. It was unsettling and intense and it made me feel exposed.
And this will be my coach.
“Already working on it,” Dickson assured me.
Dragging my gaze from Cooper, I faced my new producer. I tried to think of everything I would gain from doing this job, and not the potential ass**le I’d have to work alongside every day while doing it.
Cooper was still there, though, a bronze and startling blue haze in my peripherals.
“I’ll do it,” I said, my voice shaky. Then, Dickson and I clasped hands.
But later that afternoon, once lunch was over and Kevin dropped me off at the nicest hotel I could afford for the evening, I searched for Dickson’s newest movie. It took two clicks to discover that a starlet—of the mouse ear variety—had dropped out of the lead role recently, due to a scheduling conflict. Staring at the screen until her picture and the adjacent photo of Dickson became a blur, I dialed Jessica, one of my best friends. I caught her voicemail.
“Jess, it’s me. I’m out, so call me back,” I said. Then I tried contacting everyone else I knew, with no luck, including my parents. Their shared voicemail picked up and my mother’s newscaster-like voice answered.
“This is Tiffany and Jason Avery. We’re vacationing in Paris, but we’ll get back to you . . .”
Frustrated, I punched the end call button and tossed the phone on top of the nightstand next to the hotel bed. Mom and Dad would be on vacation. I flipped on the TV and settled for reruns of a reality show on MTV, waiting for one of my friends to call me back.
But when I drifted off to sleep a few minutes after midnight, curled into a tight coil of flesh and bone and thinking of blue eyes and an endless blue sea, my phone hadn’t so much as vibrated once.
“It’s better this way,” I said, as I hugged myself. If Jessica had called me back, I would have gone out—I would have gotten high. I couldn’t let myself do that anymore. I needed a different escape.
But saying those words, and thinking those thoughts, did nothing to stop the tight pain in my chest.
I had dreams—no, nightmares—about soft, blue blankets.
And when I woke up several times throughout the night, all I found myself wanting was more blue—Roxies, my once favorite escape of all—to numb all of that away. I cried myself back to sleep, hating my weaknesses.
Chapter Two
A pounding outside my hotel room door jarred me awake, unraveling me from my fitful sleep. For a moment, I remained still, squinting as the sunlight poured across the bed. There hadn’t been a window in my room at Serenity Hills, which I’d shared with a steady influx of other girls—the last being a rocker’s kid who was only there for eight weeks. For six months I’d missed waking up to the light. It burned the edges away from the darkness, at least for a little while.
The door shook again and this time a muffled voice on the other side called out my name. Groaning, I rolled over, stumbled out of bed, and crept across the paisley print carpet. After I wiggled my arms and legs to shake out the stiffness, I leaned forward to glance out the peephole.
Kevin stood in the hallway, with his hands in his pocket, biting his lip impatiently. I knew better than anyone that my agent spent more time dealing with me than most of his other clients, but it still made my throat go dry whenever he dropped a silent reminder that I was that client. The nuisance who didn’t want to cooperate, despite everything he’d done for me.
Of course, not all of Kevin’s suggestions and efforts had had the effect he wanted them to.
Sucking in a long breath to force the painful burn in my chest down to the pit of my stomach, I flung the door open. Kevin walked right past me, carrying a folder under his arm and rolling a suitcase behind him. I shut the door and counted to ten to calm myself, so I wouldn’t say anything I’d regret. When it came to Kevin and my parents, I was infamous for doing that.
I turned around to face him wearing a sarcastic smile. “Good morning to you, too” I said, hugging my chest and pressing my back against the wall.
Dropping the bag on the center of the bed, Kevin started, “I’m guessing you—” When he glanced up at me, taking me in, he stopped mid-sentence. “Is everything okay, Willow?”
So he wouldn’t see how much his surprise to see me still clean stung, I rolled my eyes dramatically and shoved myself off the wall with the back of my foot. “I don’t always have to get high.” But I’d wanted to, I silently added, feeling my body flush with humiliation. And nobody called me back. I slid onto the edge of the bed, curling my toes into the carpet.