Dean waggled his brows. “Guess I had clearance.”
“Tell me!”
He sighed. “Turns out the security guard is a Heather Hutchins fan—oops, I mean Wainwright. Or at least a fan of her sixteen-year-old body in a skimpy bikini.”
She knew that picture. There were few from her childhood; they hadn’t owned a camera and her mother was generally too drunk to care about preserving memories. Heather had bought a disposable camera to take candid pics with a friend. A handful happened to be taken in their swimsuits while they were tanning. If she hadn’t run far and fast from her home when her father had kicked her out, she’d have gathered all those personal items. Besides her name, she’d left a lot behind—things that Dean had sold off over the years. Wasn’t that what parents’ did when their children became famous?
What was more surprising was the security guard. “He let you on the lot in exchange for a picture of me?” No wonder she had a general distrust of, well, everyone. “Hope it was worth it. He’s not going to have a job here after today.”
“Now, Heather. You don’t need to be a bitch.” Dean plopped his other foot on the floor and leaned forward, his hands on his knees. “You’ve always had it out for the working man.”
Her father hadn’t been a working man since she’d first hit it big. He lived off the money she threw to him—money she gave him in hopes that he’d finally leave her alone and let her put her past behind her. “What do you want?”
Dean stood and walked to her, spreading his arms open in an inviting hug. “Can’t I just come by to see my baby doll?”
“Yeah, I’m not buying that.” She ducked out of his embrace. “Look, I’m at work here and I need to be in make-up. So let’s skip all the usual bullshit and cut to the chase. What do you want?”
“Work?” Dean scanned the trailer. Heather knew what he saw—the forty-two inch flat screen TV, the granite countertops, the stainless steel appliances. He was probably adding up their worth. “Sure as shit doesn’t look like work to me. Deluxe trailer with all the fancy? Nah, this is what I call a vacation.”
Her patience had reached its limit. “What. The f**k. Do you want?”
“Okay, okay.” Dean lifted his hands in surrender. Then he put on his serious face, his voice growing somber. “It’s not for me. It’s your mother.” She’d definitely gotten her acting skills from her dad. “She needs to go to rehab.”
“Again? That was your excuse last time.” Why did he even bother with reasons? She’d give him the money anyway in the end, whatever he said. “How much is it going to cost?”
“Two hundred.”
Her eyes popped. “Two hundred thousand?”
“It’s a six-month program. She needs the intensity. Seems the thirty-day bullshit doesn’t work for her.”
She doubted her mother had ever been to rehab for two days much less thirty. The money she gave to her father paid for booze and coke. She wouldn’t be surprised if Dean was coked up now.
It made her sick to think about it. Made her pissed. “You know what? I can’t do this anymore. I told you that the last time you came begging for money. Frankly, you’re not authorized to be here. I could call security.” She picked up the cell phone she’d left on the counter earlier and held it up, threatening.
“You could. But you won’t want to cause a scene.” His lips tugged up into a smile that bared his drug-yellowed teeth. “See, baby doll? I know you.”
“You don’t know me at all.” And yet he did. He knew she was embarrassed by him, knew that she wanted to sweep him under a rug. Her threats were empty.
“I do know you.” He patted her on the arm. “And I know you wouldn’t turn your back on your family.”
Even though she’d shrugged away from his touch, it was just enough contact to stir her emotions. She folded her arms across her chest as a tear slipped down her cheek. “You mean, like you turned your back on me?”
“Now, Heather. You’re the one who ran away.”
“You kicked me out!”
“We had a spat. That’s all.”
He probably really saw it that way. Thought that her whole reason for taking off boiled down to one argument on one night of her young life. But it hadn’t. She’d wanted to leave for years—since she was old enough to think about running away. She hadn’t because she thought for some crazy reason that she might be needed. Loved, even.
Except, every day of her teenage life proved differently. She was treated like she was a burden, told she was worth nothing, yelled at and screamed at and belittled. So when her father kicked her out, it was the permission she needed to leave. To let go.
Yet, she hadn’t ever been able to do that last part. Well, she was doing it now. Once and for all. “Okay, I’m done. Please, leave.”
“Not ’til I get what I came for.” He took another step toward her. “What I deserve.”
She couldn’t back farther, trapped between her father and the counter. She tried not to shrink away, to stand up to the man. “You don’t f**king deserve anything from me. Get out!”
“Don’t you talk to me like I’m some stranger, Heather.” Dean grabbed her arm, pinching her skin between his fingers. “I’m your father. Your flesh and blood.”
“Let me go.” She wasn’t afraid of him—he’d smacked her around before, but never really hurt her. It was her pride wounded now. She was pretty certain there’d be a bruise from his grip and she sure as hell didn’t want to explain that to makeup.
“Not until you show me some respect.” His grip tightened.
“Let me go!” She yanked her arm away, but it wasn’t her own action that released her from her father’s hold.
It was Seth.
“The lady said to let her go.” In a blur of movement, Seth had Dean’s face slammed against the refrigerator, his arm pinned behind his back.
“Don’t you worry yourself about this,” Dean said, his high-pitched tone the only sign he was bothered by his predicament. “I’m her father. We’re fine.”
Seth pulled Dean’s arm higher. “I don’t care if you’re the goddamn pope. She says to let her go, you let her go.”
Heather’s stomach lurched with conflicting emotions. On the one hand, Seth’s hero act was very touching. She’d dated guys that protected her from fans and overzealous paparazzi. But this…this felt different. Sweet, to say the least.