Chapter 7

 

Gemma

 

As soon as I wrap myself around Dylan’s back, nestling myself on the back of the bike, he knows he’s got me. It’s payback time for him, and I don’t need to see the front of his face to know that he’s grinning from ear to ear.

What he doesn’t realize is that I’ve been waiting for this exact moment.

What I didn’t realize is how scary it actually feels, now that I’m tucked in tightly behind him and literally holding on for my life.

When the bike revs loudly and shoots out of the parking lot, I feel more like I’ve just tied myself to a rampaging animal than sat passenger on a motorcycle. I squeeze my arms even harder around Dylan’s frustratingly large and hard torso and start praying.

Dylan doesn’t let up. He leans into corners so hard that I feel like I can taste the asphalt, brakes so suddenly that I feel like my eyeballs are gonna pop, and when he starts going really fast I feel like I stuck my head out of an airplane.

Pretty soon we’re racing down the Pacific Coast Highway to Malibu, but even the beauty of the ocean on one side, and the hills on the other, isn’t enough to distract me from the fact that I just strapped myself to a madman with one and a half thousand CCs between his legs – the most destructive place a man can have power.

Eventually, I get used to the sweeping corners and the sensation that we’re on the edge of control enough to shout.

“How fast are we going?”

“About fifty,” Dylan calls back.

“Are you sure?”

He clarifies, “About fifty over the limit.”

“Fuck!”

After about twenty more minutes of some of the most reckless riding I’ve ever seen in my life, Dylan pulls in at some small bar set on one of the hills in a small alcove. There’s a long row of bikes that are similar to Dylan’s, and the rough wood of the walls along with the dangerous-looking men standing around outside make it seem like the kind of bar a girl like me should not be at.

Nevertheless, I quickly get off the bike and step in front of Dylan as he gets off, my legs shaking. When he turns to me, I punch him on the shoulder as hard as I can.

“Are you fucking crazy? You could have got us killed!”

Dylan laughs and rubs his shoulder a little, though I know it didn’t hurt. It would take a pickaxe to hurt muscles that tight.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy it? I thought you were a rollercoaster kind of girl, Gemma.”

“That was not a rollercoaster. That was a stupid, maniacal thing to do.”

“Ok, maybe,” Dylan nods, before stepping towards me, reaching his arms out to clasp my shoulders. “But tell me this – how sexy do you feel right now? You feel alive, right?”

I can’t deny the rush of adrenaline pumping through me, but it’s not making me feel grateful. Instead of answering Dylan, I whack both of his arms away and step back. Casting another look at the bar I realize there’s another problem right now.

“Where the hell are we?”

“This is Neptune’s Net biker bar. Best fried fish around. How about we go inside, I buy you a basket, and you let me make it up to you?”

Before I can answer, Dylan’s walking off towards the entrance. I look at the bike, then at the long road we’ve just travelled down, sigh deeply, and follow the man that’s becoming a giant pain in my ass.

I check my phone and find a couple of messages from the assistant director and some of the crew, asking where I – or more specifically, Dylan – went. Complete with some not-so-friendly reminders that we should be on the set about now.

I consider texting back some excuse about us grabbing lunch and returning soon, but stop myself – it’s the first day, and I’m not about to start making excuses already. I’ll just have to get Dylan back as soon as possible, then explain in person what happened. Maybe I can say I wasn’t sure about how the lunch breaks work – which is kind of true. Either way, the sooner I get Dylan back, the better.

When I enter the bar Dylan’s already sitting next to the window. He turns to look at me for a second before returning his gaze out the window towards either his bike or the ocean. Probably his bike. I stalk over to the table.

“Dylan, we have to get back to the set. Now!”

“But I’ve just ordered,” he says, as calm as anything.

“It’s the first day!” I say, loud enough to make everyone in the bar look at me. “We can’t just disappear like this!”

Dylan breaks into a smile that’s so small I know it’s meant for himself and not me.

“Relax, Gemma. Everybody’s got to eat. It’s a lunch break. What? Is that too ‘wild’ for you now?”

I press my fingers against my temples, and breathe deeply. I can feel the start of a headache coming on, as if I’ve been bashing my head against a brick wall – although even that would probably be easier than reasoning with Dylan.

I slump into a chair opposite him, check my watch, and look around nervously until the food arrives, every second feeling like an eternity.

When the crisp, golden fish and cross-cut fries arrive at our table, I realize how hungry I am and manage to push the sense of impending doom aside.

“I didn’t order beers,” Dylan says, sliding a soda toward me in between bites, “figured you’d get in trouble for drinking on the job.”

I glare at him for a second before getting back to my food, eating quickly so that we can get back as soon as possible.

“You know, the last time I had a babysitter was when I was ten. It was my first kiss.”

I ignore his attempt at a joke (though maybe it’s not a joke at all) and scowl. “Please just eat up so we can get the hell out of here,” I say, quickly returning to my food.

“How do you even get a job like this?” he asks. “I mean, do you like ordering me around? Spying on me wherever I go?”

“What I like is keeping things in order and keeping them running smoothly,” I grind out.

Dylan shakes his head. “I never understood people who like playing by the rules.”

I throw my knife and fork down, glaring at Dylan with irritation tickling my body along every single limb.

Dylan smiles as he chews, then puts his food down.

“You are one buttoned-up little bundle of nerves, aren’t you?” he says.

I breathe deeply.

“And you’re a fucking mess of poor character traits,” I hiss.

Dylan jerks back like I hit him.

“Ouch!” he says, laughing and grabbing his soda. “I can’t argue with that though.”

I pick up my knife and fork again and try to continue eating, but my mind is now stuck on one thought – which I’m noticing as a pattern whenever I’m around Dylan. I look up from my food and see that he’s still looking at me.

“I don’t get you, Dylan. I really don’t,” I say, with a sigh. “You’ve got everything right now. This movie could be awesome. All you have to do is fucking show up on time and do what you’re good at. It’s your chance to prove everybody wrong, to show that you’ve still got it. Instead you seem determined to screw up every chance life gives you. What is it? Why are you pushing back so hard? We’ve haven’t even officially begun shooting and you’ve already tried to fuck me in your trailer and then run away without telling anyone.”

Dylan’s smile disappears as I talk, and I notice the other side of him take over, the one with the thousand-yard stare and the face of someone with too many secrets he can’t forget.

“I don’t have to prove anything to anybody.”

“But you want to, don’t you? Otherwise you’d be on a beach somewhere – God knows you have enough money. Instead you’re acting again – or saying you will, at least.”

Dylan gazes out of the window for a moment, like he can’t bear to look at the kind of person who would ask that question.

“I need to use the restroom,” he says. I watch him stand up and step past me and towards the bathroom at the back. I debate standing outside the door of the men’s room in case he might be up to no good in there, but I know treating him like a rebellious teenager I can’t even trust to take a piss would only make things worse between us.

Instead I look down at my food, wondering what the hell is going on with Dylan for the fiftieth time since I’ve met him. Everything he does seems to contradict the last thing. He goes from teasingly humorous to pent-up anger in seconds. Being around him is like living somewhere where the weather changes three times a day. You have no idea why, can’t prepare for it, and it ends up making you feel like a mess.

I slowly try and force myself to eat a little more but I’m so completely in my head now that my body feels numb. I look around the bar at leather-clad bikers drinking nonchalantly, a few girls chatting away. I turn back to my food. They seemed to leave me alone when they noticed Dylan, but I’m not going to push my luck.

The waitress, a short, tired-looking woman with a warm smile and a tight bun of a hairdo, comes over.

“It’s ok, sugar. The bill’s settled.”

“Oh, I was just waiting for my friend.”

“You’ll be waiting a long while then, darling.”

I frown my confusion and turn around. “He’s just gone to the bathroom.”

“And he’s just come out,” she says, nodding towards the window.

I turn my head to look where the waitress is nodding. My muscles clench before my brain can even process what’s happening.

Fuck. Dylan’s on his bike, and there’s some girl in tiny denim shorts settling in behind him. I watch, horrified, as Dylan cranes his neck back to exchange words with the girl before revving his bike and shooting off, the girl laughing and screaming as they kick up dust and start soaring along the winding road into the horizon.

I slump my head in my hands. Great. Dylan’s fucking abandoned me. Another thing to add to the list of things I’m going to get revenge for as soon as this shoot is done.

“Are you ok, sugar?” the waitress asks, softly.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” I say, raising my head.

She shakes her head sympathetically.

“Men. They’re all bastards.”

“Some bastards are bigger than others,” I say, stepping by her and pulling my phone out as I make my way to the door.

I sprint out into the parking lot and stare for a few seconds at the horizon that Dylan and his new best friend have just disappeared into.

“Fuck!” is about the only thing I can manage to say. I start pacing up and down so angrily that I’m kicking up dust clouds on the dirt parking lot. I start calling Dylan, over and over again, getting angrier and more desperate with each of the many unanswered ring tones. After firing off a few expletive-filled voicemails I give up, all too aware of how easily Dylan can ignore me.

I can already hear the irate and uncomprehending voices of the producers ringing in my ears as they outline the many reasons I’m fired. I can already see the frustration and defeat in the faces of the entire crew as they realize I’m responsible for destroying a multi-million dollar movie project and losing all of them their jobs.

I look up to the sky, almost in the hope I’ll see a way out of this written in the clouds. What am I going to tell the producers? ‘Hey I happened to lose your international movie star, and by the way could you give me a lift home?’ There’s no way I come out of this without looking like an incompetent idiot.

What I should do is tell the truth: That Dylan is a complete asshole who ran from the set and then abandoned me in the middle of nowhere, that it’s not my fault, and that the star of their movie is impossible to control. Maybe they’ll understand. Maybe they’ll sympathize. Maybe they’ll blame the guy who’s gonna be on the poster, and take sides with the girl who until now was working on small-fry projects in the financial department.

Even in Hollywood that doesn’t make for a believable story.

I rehearse conversations to myself as I walk up and down the lot, preparing every ounce of wit and strength for the call I’ll make to the producers. Eventually, however, the call is made for me.

My phone rings. It’s Michael. I close my eyes and tense my shoulders, bracing myself, then answer the phone.

“Gemma?”

“Yeah?” My voice is high-pitched, practically strangled. But I guess there’s no point in trying to pretend everything is fine.

“It’s Michael.”

“Yeah,” I sigh, defeated. Here it comes.

“Look, Dylan just told me about the food poisoning.”

I stop breathing, concentrating hard as I make myself sure I heard him right.

“He did?” I say, quickly realizing that the less I give away, the better. Michael doesn’t sound pissed, and I’d like to keep him that way for as long as possible.

“He sounded pretty bad. How are you feeling?”

“Oh…um…” I consider putting on a little cough, before quickly realizing that the key to good acting is subtlety. I settle for talking a little drowsily. “I’m…not doing too great.”

“Yeah, Dylan said you might not be. Look, this is pretty bad, but at least we’re not filming proper until tomorrow. Dylan’s met the director, so we’re good for today. Dylan told us he’s going home to recover, you should probably do the same. Rest, drink fluids, all that. We really need you guys on-set tomorrow and in good shape, so just take the rest of the day off, ok? You know what’s riding on this, and we can’t afford to push back the start date.”

“Ah…yeah. Of course. Thanks,” I mumble, still in shock that Michael’s being so nice.

“Sure, whatever. Just make sure you get better – fast.”

I hang up the phone and stand still for a full ten seconds. Did that really just happen? Food poisoning? It’s a lame excuse, and I can’t believe how sincerely Michael was convinced, but then I remember the obvious: Dylan’s an actor. Peddling bullshit is what he does best.

I take a few moments to enjoy the feeling of getting away with it. It’s not a total reprieve – I still don’t know where Dylan is, whether he’ll be on-set tomorrow, or how the hell I’m going to manage him throughout the shoot when he pulls shit like this on the first day – but for now I’m just glad my job is still safe. For now.

 

It takes about an hour for my dad to drive through the canyons and all the way to this Godforsaken bar in the middle of traffic-clogged Malibu. Plenty of time to think about all the ways I’d like to murder Dylan Marlowe. Plenty of time to work myself up to the point where I’m ready to break his fingers, and almost enough time to calm back down again.

My dad’s car rolls to a stop in front of the bar just as it’s getting dark, and I start feeling a little chilly in the cold breeze that rolls in from the ocean.

“Hey Gemma,” he says, as I walk towards him with an eagerness and appreciation I haven’t had since I was a kid.

“Hey Dad,” I say, clutching him in a hug that I’ve needed for a long time now.

“What’s going on?” he chuckles, when I pull away. “And what’s with the mysterious S.O.S.?”

“Let’s just get out of here. I’ll tell you in the car.”

Once we’re driving up the rolling roads back towards the studio lot I start feeling a little better. My dad keeps glancing at me from the corner of his eye.

“I’m fine, Dad, really,” I say. He doesn’t need to speak for me to see how worried he is. “I just went out for a few drinks and missed my ride home. That’s all.”

He nods, thinks it over, and – as if listening to the sullen sound of my voice, rather than the words I’m saying – responds.

“You know, you could always handle the guys on set. Even as a little girl, you’d hold your own. Most of the crewmembers weren’t allowed to bring their kids, but you – they loved you. You didn’t count as a kid.”

“Well, I liked helping.”

“You did. And look at you now – you’re still helping around on the movie sets. And with this new production accounting gig, you’re not just fetching coffee anymore.”

The pride in his voice makes me feel too guilty to correct him. Yes, I was supposed to be done with low-level production assistant work, but instead of the promotion I’ve worked so hard to earn, I’m stuck babysitting a selfish asshole who abandoned me at a biker bar and will probably end up getting both of us fired by tomorrow, food poisoning cover story or not.

“I feel like I did a better job of it when I was a kid sometimes,” I say, looking out of the window lazily.

“I know it can feel like that sometimes, Gemma. It’s not all glamor and magic, it’s a tough business. All I did was build sets and I still got burnt out sometimes, but it’s worth it in the end. Where else can you put your—”

“—your hard work on a screen for the world to see. I know Dad, you’ve been saying that for twenty years now.”

He chuckles and I join in, a warm feeling spreading through me at how familiar and strong my dad is, no matter what other crazy shit is going on. “Your mother would be very proud of you,” my dad says, quietly. “It’s a shame she’s not around to see you now. But I know she’s watching…somehow…”

I look at him and see a gentle smile soften his face.

“Silly old fool,” he says.

“No, you’re not, Dad. Thanks.”

He nods and concentrates on the driving for a while. As we approach the lot I guide him past the security booth to the parking area, where my car sits.

“I’ll see you Sunday for the game, Dad.”

“I thought you’d forgotten in all this fuss.”

“Never.”

He gives me one more warm chuckle as I kiss him on the cheek and get out of the car, waving him goodbye as he drives out of the parking area.

I step towards my car, ready to drive home, take a long hot shower, and gather as much energy I can for whatever crazy shit Dylan is going to pull the next day.

Unfortunately, fate has other plans. Just as I’m about to put the key in the ignition, I get a text from Frankie—‘How was day 1? Meet me for coffee and tell me everything!’

Part of me wants to ignore her text and escape home to that shower, but the other part of me is still boiling with anger at Dylan, and there’s a strong need to vent pumping through my veins. I text Frankie back and tell her I can’t stay long, but I’ll be there in twenty minutes.