CHAPTER TWO
“Shit. This is bad,” I said as I watched the video phone footage on TMZ while balancing a bag of frozen peas on the knuckles of my right hand. Lucky for me, I’d been captured on half a dozen camera phones, all showing me from various angles punching Richard Abbott, a forty-three-year-old mechanic from Omaha, Nebraska, in the face.
My front door opened, and I whipped around to see Marina walk in carrying a brown paper bag. I pushed out a breath of relief. I was so tightly wound, I wasn’t sure I could handle this alone. I hadn’t called her, but I wasn’t surprised she’d come anyway even though she was supposed to be working.
“What in the hell happened?” she asked, walking toward me.
“I just snapped,” I said, turning back to the TV as the host discussed what had led to my emotional breakdown.
“I’ll say,” she said in awe. “Have you been taking kickboxing or self-defense classes on the sly? Because that was quite a punch.”
“No.” I groaned and began to pace again. “Just hot yoga.”
“Don’t discount the Pilates,” she said with a grin. “Your solid core helped with your follow-through.” Then she imitated the punch that was replaying on my TV screen.
“Not helping.”
She cringed when she saw the peas. “What in the hell is on your hand?” She stuck her finger into her mouth and made a gagging sound before she grabbed the package and tossed them across the room. The peas hit the wall and bounced to the tile floor, but before I could put up a fuss, she handed me a small container of gourmet ice cream. She winked. “You deserve it, America’s Slugger.” Her eyes widened. “Hey! Maybe you can get a job on one of those women’s wrestling shows. Or roller derby.”
I shot her a glare and muted the TV.
“What?” Marina asked in fake innocence, her hands wide. Her grin spread. “Too soon?”
I moved over to the front window and peered through the blinds. There were multiple cars parked up and down the street, and the paparazzi were standing on the sidewalk. “Did you see the police out front?” My neighbors were going to get pissed if the photographers blocked the street.
“Surely they’re not going to arrest you for this,” she said. “What two-hundred-and-fifty-pound man is going to admit to getting punched out by a tiny woman? He’s more likely to file a civil suit.”
Great. One more thing to worry about. “I can’t afford a lawsuit. You can’t squeeze blood out of a turnip.”
She studied my face. “I know things are bad, Summer, but how bad are they?”
“I’m losing my house.”
“What? How?”
I stopped pacing and ran my fingers through my hair. “Two words: my mother.” The source of pretty much everything that had gone sour in my life.
“That bitch. What did she do now?”
I’d called my mother much worse names after discovering the extent of her thievery. “Nothing new. Just the same old shit cropping up anew.”
“How much do you owe the bank?”
“Three million dollars.” For the second mortgage on my house.
Marina’s eyes bugged out of her head. “Oh. Shit.”
I sat the sofa. “Shit is right.”
“I told you to go after her when she cleaned you out and ran.”
“I couldn’t.”
The dark look she shot me suggested she strongly disagreed, but I didn’t expect her to understand. Marina had run off to LA fifteen years ago and left her family behind. While I’d left mine in the past too, Marina was actually glad to be rid of hers. I hadn’t wanted to be estranged from my grandmother and my cousins. But it was my fault their scandal had hit the tabloids. My fault the tragedy of the fire had been compounded by the coverage of it. And I had plenty of other things to feel guilty about too.
Suing my mother would have dragged what remained of my family into closer scrutiny, something she’d counted on. I’d decided to do my part to protect my cousins. And, even though she hated me—Meemaw. Any more drama from me would have kept them—especially my little cousin, who would have never purposefully set that fire, charges notwithstanding—in the spotlight. So I’d sucked up the multi-million-dollar mess, reasoning that I’d soon earn it back.
But I’d already spent so much money by then—on this house, on the furniture, on a wardrobe that had quickly gone out of style—and I hadn’t booked any major jobs since then. The money from re-airings of Gotcha! brought in ridiculously low royalties, again thanks to my mother, who’d insisted on more money up front.
“You could sell your story about what happened,” she suggested with raised eyebrows.
I shook my head. I couldn’t risk it.
“Then you have to do the nude photos, Summer,” Marina said. “You need the money.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” I groaned in frustration.
I put the ice cream in the freezer, grabbed the phone, and moped all the way to the high-end sofa my designer had insisted I buy. Something so uncomfortable no sane person would want to sit on it. “I was desperate enough to consider a reality TV show.” I leaned my head back and moaned. “That’s why I was at the restaurant taking a meeting with Scott Schapiro—to pitch ideas to him.”
“Reality TV?” she asked, sounding hopeful.
I sat up and gave her a look of disbelief.
“Wait. You hate reality TV. You must be rock-bottom desperate.” She sat down sideways beside me and crossed her legs. “Jesus, Summer. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Utter embarrassment? Or maybe it was plain denial. But I wasn’t copping to either one. “What good would it have done? It doesn’t matter anyway. Schapiro told me I was too vanilla for people to care about. This probably blew the Alpha deal too. They wanted a good girl gone bad, but the effect would kind of be ruined now that I’m plastered on all the gossip sites.”
My phone began to ring, and I glared at the screen when I saw Justin’s name. I considered letting it go to voice mail, but this was all his fault, and it was time for me to fire his ass for good.
“You have a lot of fucking nerve,” I said as soon as I answered.
“Summer, darling.”
“You set me up. Did you want me to fail?” I demanded, moving to the window and peering through the blinds. There were a couple of news trucks and more paparazzi now.
“No, of course not. If you’d known you would have to pitch, you never would have gone at all.”
“Justin, I looked like a fool! It was so obvious I was unprepared . . . Besides, it was a waste of time. Schapiro said I was too boring.”
“That’s why I’m calling.”
“To gloat?”
“No! To tell you that Schapiro changed his mind. He’s offering you a contract, but you have to move fast.”
I froze. “Wait. What?”
He laughed. “Schapiro is offering you a contract for a limited-run series. Kind of like a test series.”
“What made him change his mind?”
“I don’t know . . . probably watching you beat the shit out of that old man.”
“He wasn’t an old man, Justin. And it was one punch.”
“For all I care, you could have used Rip Van Winkle as a punching bag. Schapiro is offering fifty thousand dollars per episode for six episodes. But you have less than twenty-four hours to sign and seventy-two to show up on set.”
“That fast? Is it possible?”
“He’s using the negative publicity to help grab an audience.” He paused. “Are you sure that guy wasn’t old? Only old guys wear palm-tree shirts.”
“You’re watching the videos?”
“Of course I am. I have to know what’s going on.” He let out a groan. “Damn, girl. I should have been trying to get you parts in action movies.”
“Justin.”
“My advice? Take the deal. You’re not going to land anything that pays better.”
I put my hand on my chest to slow my racing heart. “I don’t even know what the reality show’s about.”
“Schapiro’s assistant was fuzzy about the details, but I know there’s travel involved.”
“Travel?”
Marina gave me a thumbs-up sign, then handed me a glass of wine. God bless her.
“His producer is headed to your house right now with the contract. She’ll give you all the details.”
“Aren’t you going to read it first? Aren’t you going to come over?”
“Sorry, Summer. I’m tied up, but you’re in good hands. Besides, you’re a pro at this. Congrats, darling! You’re back.” Then he hung up.
I was back. I wasn’t nearly as excited as I’d hoped I would be.
“Travel?” Marina asked. “Can I be your assistant again? I’ve always wanted to go to Greece. All those men wearing togas and wreaths on their heads.” She made a roaring sound.
“That is Rome, Marina, and you’re about two thousand years too late.”
“Huh. Too bad.” She grinned, and I shook my head.
“So what’s the premise of the show?” she asked.
“I have no idea.”
“He didn’t give you any clue at your lunch?”
“There was no lunch,” I said, flopping down on the sofa. “There was only a stolen glass of wine, and then I was whisked out the back.”
She sat next to me and quirked her eyebrow. “Stolen wine?”
“Declined credit card.”
She made an exaggerated grimace.
“And it turns out that I was the one pitching to him. Justin totally threw me to the wolves.”
“What?” She sat next to me, sloshing the wine in her glass.
“I threw out a few random ideas. Maybe he picked the dating one. Maybe I get to date guys all over the world.” That might not be so bad, come to think of it. My dry spell had been so long, my body felt like the Sahara.
“Maybe you get to cook all over the world.”
“God, let’s hope not. I can’t cook.”
“All the more reason to do it . . .”
Marina continued to throw out ideas, each one crazier than the last—including herself in each of the scenarios, of course—until the doorbell rang. I looked at the security-camera app on my phone. There was a woman in a trench coat on my front porch, and she looked pissed. Great.
“Reporter?” Marina asked.
I opened the door a crack, hoping she was a reporter, because if this was the producer, she looked even more intimidating than Scott Schapiro. “Can I help you?”
Trench-coat woman glared. “Let me in.” She stood nearly a foot taller than I was in her three-inch heels. It didn’t help that I was standing on my bare feet.
She started to walk in, but I blocked her path. “You’re not coming in until I know who you are and what you want.”
Trench-coat woman barely rolled her eyes, but that half gesture was enough for her to get her point across. I got the impression that she was used to getting her way without pushing for it.
“Lauren Chapman. I’m apparently the showrunner of your new show, so you better let me in or I’ll make your life a living hell.”
Holy crap. And here I’d thought this day couldn’t get any worse.
I backed out of the way, and Lauren stormed past me.
“Summer!” photographers shouted from the street. “Why’d you hit your fan?”
“Summer! Is it true you’re entering rehab?”
I grunted and slammed the door shut.
Lauren stood in the center of my living room, glancing around. “Not bad. You’ve got a great view of the ocean.”
My house was incredibly small but ridiculously expensive because of its location. Right on the Malibu shore. It was going to kill me to lose it, but eight years of little income had taken their toll.
Then it hit me. They would probably expect to use this place for the show.
Lauren sat in my midcentury-modern Mies van der Rohe Barcelona original chair—another must-have according to my pushy decorator—and plopped a folder on my coffee table. “Just sign these and let’s make it official so we can get started.”
“Justin said I had to be on location within seventy-two hours. But he didn’t say what the premise of the show would be.”
Lauren groaned and shook her head. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
I just stared at her. To my surprise, Marina, who stood behind me, remained completely silent. That was so unlike her.
“You’ll be a PI, solving real cases.” She opened the folder and slid a stack of papers toward me. “Now sign on the dotted line so we can proceed. We have a lot to do between now and Thursday morning. I want to get an early start.”
“Wait.” I held my hands up in protest. “What?”
“Schapiro said it was your idea,” she said, winging a brow up. “Now sign.”
“I wasn’t serious,” I protested. “It was supposed to be a joke.”
She gave me a look so dry it would make a cactus thirsty. “I don’t joke.”
That much was obvious.
“Look,” I said emphatically, “I’m not really a private investigator.”
“No shit,” Lauren snapped, crossing her legs and looking at her phone. “Why do you think we’re scrambling? We’re trying to work out the PI-license situation. So, ticktock, Summer. You’re wasting many people’s valuable time, especially mine.”
I picked up the multipage legal document and quickly scanned it, surprised to see a “Created by Scott Schapiro and Summer Butler” listed. I couldn’t see Schapiro adding that, so maybe Justin had done something to earn his percentage. “It says the location is TBA.”
“As I said, we’re working out the PI license. Schapiro insists you have to do this on your own and not shadow someone, but there are conditions that need to be met in order for you to get a valid license. They don’t just let anyone with bad-acting experience get a license.” One side of her mouth tipped into the hint of a smile.
Marina’s head jutted back, and her typical attitude finally reengaged. “Bad acting?”
“Really, Marina?” I turned toward her. “That’s what you pick up on?” Still, I couldn’t ignore the warmth of gratitude spreading through my chest.
Lauren stared my friend down. “Why else has she gone a decade without a major project?”
“Hey!” Marina pointed her finger at her. “Just a few weeks ago, she was offered Dancing with the Stars!” It was a lie, but a flattering one.
“Trust me,” Lauren said, her tone dripping with disgust, “I wish she were dancing her little heart out, but here we are.” She turned her deadly gaze on me. “Sign the damn papers and stop wasting my time. Schapiro insists we have something ready to air in three weeks, which means we should have started this three months ago, not three days from now.”
“But a real PI?” I asked. “I don’t have any real-life experience.”
Lauren pushed out a sigh so loud and long it could have inflated a bouncy castle. “I heard you weren’t bright, but I’d hoped you were at least a little sharper than a Popsicle stick.” She leaned forward and widened her eyes. “I know you don’t, but don’t you worry your pretty little head about that. We’ve got it covered.”
“Excuse me? Who says I’m not bright?”
“Everyone.”
I gave Marina a bewildered look, but she just shrugged. What the hell?
Lauren groaned. “Look, Dumpling—”
Marina lifted up her hand in a halt sign. “Darling.” The producer shot her a stern look, but Marina held her ground. “Darling. Not Dumpling. America’s Darling.”
Lauren narrowed her eyes. “Are you sure?”
Oh, for God’s sake. “Yes!” I shouted. “I’m America’s Darling! And I realize I’m supposedly not very bright, but I’m smart enough not to sign this contract until I know what’s going on.”
Lauren’s back straightened, and she gave me an icy glare. “Fifty K an episode is insane for someone who hasn’t proven she can bring in the ratings, but Schapiro has sharp instincts. He thinks this opportunity is so golden he’s offering you a one-hundred-K bonus if we hit a one-point-oh rating or higher in the eighteen-to-forty-nine demographic. They’re talking about putting us on Thursday night, typically death row for most shows, but Schapiro thinks he can pull in your previous viewers from Gotcha!—especially since you trashed your squeaky-clean image this afternoon—and I know how to do that. But to make a dent in the ratings, we have to bring our A game, and damn it, I plan on bringing it, Summer.”
Stunned, I asked, “One hundred thousand?” It wouldn’t help me save my house, but I could save the farm. I could do one thing right.
“That’s right, Darling, keep up. I know what I’m doing, but I need to make sure you’re willing to take direction, because that’s the only way this will work.”
I bristled. “Of course I’m willing to take direction!”
“Then we’ll get along just fine.” She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Because, Summer, I don’t let anyone get in my way. You need to reinvent your career, and I want my own show, which means it’s in our best interest to work together. I can either be your best friend or your worst enemy. It’s all up to you.”
I narrowed my eyes. I had a feeling that statement would be tested.
“Do the smart thing,” Lauren said in a patronizing tone. “Sign the damn papers.”
Part of me wanted to shove the papers in her face and tell her to jump into the ocean that was right outside my windows. Justin had told me the same thing about Scott Schapiro’s instincts, which meant I was probably worth a lot more than this hastily thrown-together offer, but I was desperate enough to forgo negotiating. No need to be greedy.
I grabbed the pen, flipped to the back page, and signed my name.
Lauren snatched the papers out of my hand, and a Cheshire-cat grin spread across her face.
Shit. Why did I feel like I’d just signed a deal with the devil?
“Great. My assistant will handle your flight arrangements, but plan on flying out Wednesday so you can be at your new office bright and early Thursday morning to start shooting.” She started walking to the front door.
“Wait!” I called after her, her long legs outpacing me. “Flying out? I thought you didn’t know where we were filming yet?”
She burst out the door and I followed, immediately accosted by a barrage of questions from the reporters.
“Is it true you have a drinking problem?” one of the photographers asked. “Witnesses say they saw you drinking heavily at Magnum before the incident.”
“She’s a lush!” Marina shouted over my shoulder. “Check her trash! You’ll find more wine bottles than you can count!”
“Marina!” I protested.
“What? Just trying to help with your new bad-girl rep.”
But I was more interested in where we were filming. I grabbed Lauren’s forearm just as she reached the driveway. She tried to pull loose, but I dug my fingers in and held tight.
“Where are we going?”
Her grin turned devious. “You’re right, we have settled on the place, as it happens. It’s somewhere you’ll recognize. Sweet Briar, Alabama. See you Thursday morning.”
Horror washed over me. How could they have put all this together in only a few hours? If they knew where I was from, then they obviously knew about the fire and my cousin’s juvenile conviction. They were probably planning to play up the notoriety, and now that I’d signed the damned contract, there wasn’t a thing I could do about it.
I’d just cursed them to save them.
“I am not going to Sweet Briar,” I insisted.
“Too late, Darling. You already signed the contract.” She jerked free and then walked around the hood of her car in the driveway, cool as could be.
“Did you see her attack that woman?” a photographer called out to the others. Their cameras kept snapping away.
Dammit!
Lauren opened her car door, then shouted at me over the top of her car. “Congratulations!”
Congratulations? There was nothing to congratulate. I couldn’t go back to my hometown. My mother and stepfather were there, along with my grandmother, who’d forbidden me from darkening her doorstep, and my cousins, who probably believed the reason I hadn’t been back since I was seventeen was because I thought I was better than they were.
Add in the boy whose heart I had broken, and I was walking into a real-life reality TV drama.
Just like they were counting on.