Chapter 2
Nathan
I don’t think my blood can get any colder. My jaw and every other muscle in my body are tense. This is exactly why I didn’t want to leave LA. The ghosts follow me everywhere.
The reminders of what I left behind.
But the vision of her was so real.
Her pale lips and the curve of her neck and shoulders. I can practically feel her soft skin against the tips of my fingers. I close my eyes as the elevator dings and everyone in the spacious elevator shifts forward, ready to move before the doors have even begun to open.
My body refuses to be anything but tightly wound, not wanting to believe it was her, but unable to deny it.
I’d know her anywhere, even if it has been nearly a decade. The way her doe eyes stared straight into me, unlike anyone else can. Cutting through me and holding me still. It has to be her.
My Hally.
Older and looking back at me with something akin to fear. And I know why. I may have loved her, but she kept pushing and pushing. My hands clench into white knuckled fists. The people move and I keep my pace even and my strides casual as I exit the elevator. I nearly look around the room, lost and confused as to why I’m here and forgetting who I am. Why I’m headed pasts rows and rows of stage equipment and lighting.
I barely notice the glances and knowing smiles as I make my way back. Refusing to look flustered or as though I’m off balance in the least. I just need to get to my dressing room. Somewhere I’ll have a room where I can lock all these fuckers out and get a grip.
She wasn’t supposed to be here. Out of everywhere in New York, what the fuck is she doing here?
“Mr. Hart,” Stevens says from the back corner of the stage to my right. The backdrop goes all the way up the twelve-foot-high ceilings although the paint itself stops before the plywood reaches the top of the wall. It’s fitted with everything to look as though it’s a living room. I’d laugh at the ridiculousness of creating a living room on a set when one could have been used without the cost of this set if I hadn’t been here before. I know how all this shit works now. Nothing phases me with sets and production. It’s all the same when I get here and have to do my job.
Well, not here. Not in television shows.
LA is where I’ve been since I left Brooklyn. Since the day an agent met me outside of prison and told me he’d change my life forever. He was right and I never looked back.
Movies are out and TV shows are in, or so my agent says. And like the good client I am, I took his advice and came out here even though it was so close to her. I should have known better than to come anywhere close to where I grew up. I’ve been on edge ever since I got on that plane to come back here. I thought I’d be hours away. Hours from Hally and everyone else I left behind. As if there was ever enough space to make me forget.
The media sure as shit doesn’t.
Bad boy turned movie star. They love to use it to sell the reels. And I’m a fucking sellout for allowing it. But the money is damn good and this life is far better than anything else I could ever dream of.
“There he is.” My agent, Mark practically yells out, clapping his hands once as he pushes from the stage wall by the row of dressing room and walks over to me. His suit is crisp and well-tailored to match his slicked-back hair.
I halt in my tracks; my eyes were drawn to the sign on the door behind him. The one with my name on it on top of a gold star. The one I know I can disappear into and slip my earbuds in to drown out the sounds of the set.
I try to loosen my coiled muscles and greet Mark Shannon. I owe him everything and he deserves that much. But I can’t shake the knowledge that she was right there. My skin heats. She saw me.
And she didn’t come to me.
My heart drops at the thought and I barely register what Mark’s saying.
“Line reads at two and then you need to be on set no later than three,” Mark starts with the schedule. I’m sure he has it all memorized, although he’s got a stack of papers in his left hand. His right grabs my shoulder as he guides me to the door, rattling off names and times that I don’t give a shit about.
He opens the door for me and pushes it forward, not stopping to even take a fucking breath. He moves at a mile a minute and I let him. It doesn’t matter if I even respond, so long as I sign my name on the dotted line and I always do.
I take a look around and everything’s familiar. These rooms are all the same. A bed, a desk, a makeup vanity. They’re all solid wood and decorated nicely although it’s made to be temporary and that’s more than obvious by the quick construction.
I always tell Mark, modern. I’m not quite sure what it means, but the room always comes with enough to keep me occupied and comfortable for the first few days. And then I get antsy.
It used to make Mark squirm and get nervous when I’d leave the set. Especially when he first brought me on, taking a risk on the boy from Brooklyn with a bad rep but the talent and looks to make headlines in production. He doesn’t give a shit anymore though. Like I said, I show up, do my job and get the fuck back to where I belong. Alone.
The small fridge opening catches my attention. I turn to see Mark bending down and the sound of glasses clinking against one another.
He pulls out two bottles of pale ale and holds them up for me to see. “Just like you like it,” he says confidently.
I couldn’t care less about beer right now. I feel like a dick as I watch Mark take in my posture, as it dawns on him that I’m uninterested. I’m grateful. I really am. He found me the day I walked out of prison at only 19 years old. He gave me a life I don’t deserve and I hate that he’s looking at me as though I’m anything but happy for all he’s done.
“You name it, Nate,” he tells me, walking forward and putting the bottles down on the desk next to the fridge.
The words are caught in my throat, but her name is all I can think to say. The only explanation I can give.
His face is nothing but serious as he stands right in front of me, nearly a foot shorter and looks me straight in the eyes. “You name it and I’ll get it here in no time.”
My teeth grind, my pride and something else, fear maybe, wants me to shut the fuck up and just tell him everything’s fine.
But I’m desperate. And desperate men do foolish shit.
“There’s a girl,” I start and then clear my throat. “A woman.”
Mark stares at me, waiting for more and ready to deliver. “Harlow May.” Her name is like a sin on my tongue. So sweet and tempting. The sound warms my chest and just saying her name brings a sense of peace about me. The anxiousness leaves me slowly as he nods.
“Harlow May,” he says and nods repeatedly, although his eyes stayed glued to mine.
“She was here in the lobby,” I tell him and my blood heats remembering how she looked at me. The fear in her eyes is the very same that was there when I last saw her. When I told her to stay the fuck away and never speak to me again.
“Alright, she was here and you want to . . .?” Mark questions and it pisses me off.
“I want to know why. I want to know everything about her,” I say and my voice comes out firm and absent of negotiation. I’m fully aware of how fucked up my request is. “I want her here,” I add. I don’t give a shit if it’s crazy. I couldn’t give two fucks what he thinks. “Just make it happen,” I tell him words I hear these assholes tell their agents all the time. I’ve never requested anything from Mark, ever, but I need this. I need to know if it was really her.
“She wasn’t in the pilot, so if she is here, she’s no one important,” Mark says easily and then seems to think twice about his word choice. Maybe it’s because my eyes narrow and that uneasiness I’ve been trying to shake comes back full force.
“Give me five minutes,” he says as he starts walking briskly to the door. “I’ll know exactly who she is, where she is, what she’s doing and who she’s fucking in five minutes,” he says and then flinches when my eyes flash with anger.
“I don’t want to know who she’s fucking,” I spit back at him and then regret it. Not because of how pissed off I sound, but because it’s a lie. I do want to know. I close my eyes and run a hand down my face in frustration as my head throbs and I listen to the door opening and closing.
I know she wasn’t in the fucking pilot. He didn’t have to tell me that.
One episode down and seven to go for this season. If it goes well and gets picked up for the next season, then 12 episodes for the next season. Even starring in so many damn episodes, the shooting time is only thirty days. Television production is proving much faster than cinema.
Which means fewer days with her. If she’s even here. I try to ignore the hope. I try to ignore the way my stomach churns at the thought of being close to her again.
Hally was a mistake all those years ago. She brought chaos to my life. A fury of emotion I thrived on, a tension between the two of us that I was addicted to. I know it was the same for her. The two of us together was nothing but destructive. Both of us tearing at each other, even if it was only to get closer. Desperate for one another in every way.
If she’s back, I’m fucked. I already know that much.
I’m on edge as I open up the door to my room and stand there, watching everyone move about and praying for a distraction. The fourteenth and fifteenth floors are booked for production. Different sets on each and our rooms are scattered throughout the building.
My eyes drift from one person to the next, each on a cell phone or getting their makeup done or preparing in some way for the long days ahead of us. It’s show biz and it moves a mile a minute. Or at least it does around me.
I used to be eager to get in here. To play a role that someone else chose and fade into a life that wasn’t my own. Even if it was just for a moment. I could be someone else and forget my own name. Forget where I grew up and how I had no one. Forget how I ran away from the one person who ever made me feel anything but anger.
Scripts and roles were easy to be consumed with; I was that desperate to be anyone besides the person I’d become. And not a damn thing could stop me from playing the part Mark gave me. I wasn’t bred for this lifestyle, but after years of being shoved in front of cameras and taking over the spotlight, nothing fazes me anymore.
But knowing she’s here somewhere in this building, or was . . . She may have already left.
The realization makes my blood spike with adrenaline, the need to run to her and stop her from getting any further is sobering.
I didn’t want to lose her. I didn’t want to walk away. But that’s the way it had to happen. Life decided that shit, not me. I never thought I’d see her face again. Fuck, I’ve been running from her for years.
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