28
“What are we toasting to?”
“I bought the house.”
My girlfriends raised their glasses and cheered. After everyone had taken a sip, I smiled at them. This relaxed impromptu dinner at my estate was just what I needed.
“Taking a step down in the world, huh?” Faith’s dark eyes glimmered with mischief.
“You bet I am.”
Chloe contemplated the massive open-plan kitchen. “Surely you’ll miss the Gone with the Wind staircase?”
“I will miss that, but I’m looking forward to living in a home more.”
“I can’t wait to see it,” said Ally. “When do you move in?”
“Next week.”
The girls all lowered their glasses and stared at me.
“What? It was available now and the repairs are about to start here.” No way did I want to live in the middle of a construction site.
“But didn’t you say you had to make some alterations for security purposes?” asked Faith.
“Already on it. Jay will use the garage when I move in and oversee the security install from there. It will be easier that way, rather than trying to juggle two sites.”
“If you say so.” Ally tapped her finger against the side of the glass, looking worried.
“I’ll be safe. During the transition, I’ll be spending most of my time on-set while we finish filming. It’s a good arrangement.”
“True,” said Chloe. “But won’t that make the crew party in a couple of weeks difficult?”
I let out a rush of breath. “Damn. I’d totally forgotten about that. It was so long ago. And I guess I’ve been so busy with work and the move I forgot.”
Before the stalking incident and the fire and everything else, I’d offered to host the end-of-production party at my estate. It was something of a tradition of mine—and Duncan’s. On the movies we’d worked on together, he would host a party for the cast and crew, and I’d decided to continue the idea despite our separation.
“Well, you can’t hold it here,” said Chloe. “You only have half a house. I’m sure nobody will be offended if you call it off. You’ve had a crazy few months.”
“No, no. I’ll still host it. In fact, it will be the perfect housewarming.”
“Um, not to sound stupid, but isn’t it a bit small?” said Chloe.
“It’s not tiny. Yes, it only has three bedrooms, plus the guesthouse, but the grounds are quite large. We’ll host it out back and put up some tents if necessary. We can use the guesthouse to serve drinks. Actually, now I’m even more excited about the move.”
Faith’s lip quirked. “I never took you for the excited type. You’re more cool, calm and collected.”
“What’s wrong with being enthusiastic about my new house?”
Faith held up her hands. “Nothing.”
“You know what I think it is?” said Ally, “It’s because it’s Lena’s first home.”
I frowned. “No, it’s not. I’ve moved around heaps.”
“Yes,” she said. “You’ve moved around a lot, from place to place when you were modeling. Then Duncan bought you this big-ass house, but it’s never been a home.”
“No, you’re right.” Once again, Ally understood me. This time, the purchase had been entirely my choice. My new house felt like the first real chance I’d had to finally put down some proper roots.
“I can’t wait to have my own place when the time comes.” At almost twenty-one, Chloe still lived with her parents in their Hollywood Hills mansion. It put my current house to shame, which was saying something. “But I need to stay there a while longer so I can plan the birthday party of the decade.”
Ally grinned. “How’s the planning going?”
Chloe returned the grin. “It’s awesome. You should see the set-up for the stage area. Gypsy Hour are going to rock.”
“You do know it’s not a concert, right?” said Faith, amused.
“Um, it so totally is a concert. It’s my twenty-first birthday concert. And Gypsy Hour are my birthday present.”
We all burst out laughing.
“But that’s still a couple of months away,” Chloe said. “In the meantime, let us know if we can do anything to help you settle into your new house, Lena.”
The others agreed and at the same time my phone beeped. I pressed the screen and saw a message from my publicist, Trudy: You’re going to want to read this. Call me ASAP.
I frowned.
“What is it?” said Ally.
“I’m not sure.” I clicked on the link. “Oh shit.”
The others gathered around and I was too dazed to be worried about them reading over my shoulder.
“The bastard,” said Faith.
“I’m so sorry, Lena,” whispered Ally.
I barely felt Chloe squeeze my shoulder.
The headline said it all: Hollywood superstar abandons sick father.
Somehow I managed to skim the article through the tears in my eyes. How could he? Hadn’t he put me through enough already?
“So basically he’s saying he’s washed-up and penniless and you should be helping him out. My read is he’s going for the sympathy vote by revealing his alcoholism,” said Faith.
“Yes,” I whispered.
It was all there. Every last detail. His absence during my mother’s illness; his deep regret at leaving me with the responsibility of caring for my sick mother; then his turnaround later in life when he met the new woman; and reliving the pain again when she died.
“I don’t see how he’ll need any money after this,” said Chloe. “They would have paid him a heap.”
She was right. All the personal details of my private life were there on the page. It was a time in my life I’d fought to keep concealed from the media and now my father had revealed all.
It was going to be a media frenzy.
“Whatever you need,” said Ally, grasping my hand. “We’re here for you. I’m happy to be interviewed too and tell them it’s all lies.”
“But it’s not,” I said, clutching her fingers a little too tightly. “It’s all true.”
“Who cares?” she shot back, angry on my behalf. “You don’t deserve this, and I’ll do anything it takes to help this die down quickly.”
I gave her a weak smile, grateful beyond words. “Thank you.” I knew how much she hated the media. That she would do this for me meant so much. “Let me talk to Trudy. Hopefully it won’t come to that.”
*
It didn’t quite come to that, but it may as well have. When I wasn’t filming, I attended interviews. Trudy had been careful which media outlets I spoke to, but even then it still didn’t go well.
We’d agreed my position should be one that would draw sympathy. So, against my better judgment, I explained my side of the story. Now the whole world knew how, at a time in my life when I’d most needed my father, he’d abandoned me. I described how I’d managed to survive that time—barely—and had cut all contact with him since then. We hoped it would make me appear vulnerable and it sure as hell made me feel that way, revealing details of my personal life like that. But instead of reacting with sympathy, everyone just wanted more from me. And the one thing they all kept asking of me was the one thing I refused to consider: a reconciliation with my father.
My answer was no, no, and definitely no.
Trudy had even tried to broach the subject one day after a particularly grueling interview, but I’d snapped at her, and immediately felt bad. She knew it was unlike me, and she didn’t raise it again.
Social media became something I dreaded. My Twitter feed was filled with comments about alcoholism. Many people had experienced family members suffering from it, and they agreed with me—but many didn’t. They saw me as hard, distant and cold, and felt I should have more compassion for my father, who so obviously needed my help.
Compassion? I wanted to scream. Where was his compassion for his dying wife fifteen years ago or his terrified daughter? How could I show compassion to a man who had given up on us?
Faith had called me cool, calm and collected—but that didn’t help either. The more professional I was in interviews, the worse it got. When it got to the stage where trolls were calling me a heartless bitch, that was it. I was done.
“No more,” I told Trudy over the phone one day. “No more interviews.”
“Are you sure? I think this next—”
“There’s not going to be a next one. I’m going to stay quiet and pray it all dies down. That’s our strategy from now on, OK?”
I knew it wasn’t what she wanted, but I was paying her plenty, and in the end she conceded.
That was why, when I picked up my keys a week later, the sense of relief I felt was enormous. My new home signified a new start and a chance to begin again no matter what the current state of my public life was. I was taking the first step toward living the life I wanted to live and that meant owning a house that felt right for me.
There were only a few days left of filming and today was a day off, so I put the time to good use. I left Jay and the rest of the security team to set up in the garage and spent the morning unpacking the boxes of essential items I’d had sent over.
It would have made sense to start in the kitchen but the library had some sort of supernatural pull on me. It turned out I only had enough books for the first set of shelves. There was so much space I’d have to add to my collection and wouldn't that be hardship? I’d just finished putting the last book in the shelf in front of me when I heard steps coming down the hall.
I turned and my mouth dropped open.
“Nice digs you’ve got here, Princess. Suits you.”
Flustered, I straightened and brushed imaginary dust off my jeans. “Marc. What are you doing here?”
“Came along with Kaden for the ride. He’s out there with Jay.”
“Oh, of course.” How long had it been since I’d seen him? Three, four weeks maybe? I was finding it hard to think straight.
It felt like both forever and only yesterday since I’d last seen him. And I didn’t quite understand why my heart was pounding so hard in my chest.
“Can I get you a drink? Tea? Coffee?” I offered, not sure what else to do.
“Relax. I just came to have a look.”
He wandered into the room and the library didn’t seem quite so big as it had only a moment ago. He looked good. He was dressed casually today. Black jeans, black shirt and black leather jacket. I inhaled the scent of the leather mixed with the spice and mint I’d come to associate with him.
He nodded at the bookcases. “You’ll have a hard time filling these shelves.” The same way I’d done, he ran a finger along the spines of the books. “You have eclectic taste.”
“I prefer to think of myself as widely read.”
His soft laughter made me swallow.
“I’m sorry about your father.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to say anything.
“It’s a brutal illness,” he said, matter-of-factly. He walked over to the French doors to take in the view, his back to me. “I’ve seen too many good men taken down by it.”
I had the feeling he’d seen too many good men taken down in other ways too, but didn’t say that. “It takes down those around them, too.”
He turned and regarded me, his eyes hard. “I know. In our case, it usually goes hand in hand with PTSD and we want to forget. You can never forget.”
I had the urge to go over and touch him, instead I clasped my fingers behind my back. “I’m sorry.”
Marc was still watching me. “I tried it for a while.”
“What?”
His twisted frown hinted at pain. “Drinking. I wanted to drown in it but I’m a mean drunk, or so Kaden tells me. He sorted me out. Besides, weed’s more my thing.”
“Weed?” I tried not to smile. The thought of Marc zoned out on weed, relaxed and carefree, was something I’d pay to see.
He smirked. “Medicinal, of course.”
“Of course.”
We stood looking at each other, not talking. The moment he’d stepped into the room I’d become aware of an ache, but it wasn’t my shoulder, it was in my chest. It was like something had been missing and now that it was here in front of me, close enough to touch, I was filled with a painful longing.
Without thinking about it, I reached up and touched my shoulder as if I didn’t quite believe it wasn’t hurting.
His gaze followed my hand. “How is it?”
“Oh. My shoulder? Getting better. I don’t need the sling anymore but it still aches from time to time and I probably overdid it today.”
“Probably.”
I sucked in my breath as he stepped forward and closed the distance between us. Instead of stopping a respectable distance away, he came right up close. His long fingers reached up and took my wrist and I wondered if he could feel my pulse throbbing in my veins.
He lowered my arm and with his other hand, he pushed the edge of my shirt aside so he could see my shoulder.
I felt light-headed but tried not to show it. “Marc?”
He brushed his thumb along the scar and I shuddered.
“You can feel that?”
I nodded, too scared to speak.
His lip curled and I wanted so badly to reach over and touch him.
“Thought anymore about a tattoo?”
“I can’t decide what to get,” I lied.
He grinned then and I felt lost, so desperately lost.
“Maybe you’re not a tattoo girl after all.”
“No, I don’t think so. Aaron said you don’t talk about Afghanistan much.”
He was still tracing my scar with his thumb as if he was fascinated with it. He didn’t take his eyes off my shoulder but I saw the lines in his forehead deepen. “Not much. Only people I trust.”
I had no choice but to put a hand out behind me and steady myself on the bookshelves. His thumb stilled and his eyes met mine.
“You trust me?” I whispered.
“Yeah. I guess I do.”
“Why?”
“Damned if I can figure it out. You trust me?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” His eyes darkened with intent. “Then you need to trust me when I tell you I can’t work for you anymore.”
“You can’t?”
“No. You’ll have to use someone else from now on.”
“But you’re the best. And Kaden—”
“Shh.” His thumb brushed my lips and I fought a whimper, the memory of Kaden’s warning instantly slipping away.
“You once told me, ‘In your dreams, Romero.’”
I blinked and somehow through my daze recalled that moment in my trailer when my heart had been pounding much like it was now. I winced. “Yes, but—”
“Am I dreaming?”
“I don’t know.” And I didn’t. Standing here in my new house with a man who could make me feel things so deep and unexpected by merely brushing his thumb across my shoulders or lips—I could well have been dreaming. It was all so unfamiliar yet right at the same time. “If I am, I don’t want to wake up.”
“Neither do I.”