“So that’s it?” Brad pushed. “You like her, but you guys aren’t compatible. How was the sex?”
“What?”
“How was the sex?” Brad repeated the question slowly and clearly. The man had no shame.
“Does it matter?”
“Yes. It absolutely matters. I don’t want to know the placement of your dick; I just want to know if it was dreary or life-shattering.”
“It was great.” Cole looked away. “And disappointing.”
The big man waited, in no apparent rush to make their mediation on time. When Cole didn’t elaborate, he pushed. “Explain.”
“I’ll sound like a pussy.” Cole exhaled, regretting this path of honesty.
“It’s just you and me here. And I love pussy. Give it to me.”
Cole winced. “She was on her stomach. It felt disconnected.”
“Are you a typically a ‘make love’ type of guy?”
“No.” Cole rubbed his thighs and wished in that moment to be anywhere else. “I fuck.” And he did. That was the name of the Cole Masten Bedroom Show: Fucking. Even with Nadia, especially with Nadia. That was what they did. That was really all they ever did. Just another relationship realization a half-decade too late.
“So…” Brad mused. “You had sex with her, and it was great, but you wanted to have more of a connection with her. You like her, but blah-blah-blah you two are too different for it to work. Do you hear the giant holes in this?”
Cole met his eyes. “What do you want from me? Are you trying to convince me to date the girl?” He shook his head. “I’m a little confused over here.”
“I want you to be happy. I want to do my job so that you can move past this divorce and have a chance at normality.”
“Normality?” Cole laughed, raising his hands in exasperation. “I’m in a roped off room with my assistant standing bodyguard, in a town I don’t even fit into anymore, late to a conversation with my wife and her attorneys who—six fucking weeks ago were my attorneys—to discuss division of a life that I was pretty happy with. Normality in Hollywood is as twisted as our deals.”
“You live here, you work in the industry. You don’t have to be it.”
“Is this still about Summer? Or is this a fucking psych session about my life now?” Cole stood, his voice rising.
When Brad rose, squaring off against him, the dynamic changed. Cole stepped a pace back.
“Let’s go to mediation. Keep your mouth shut in there, and let me do my job. When you get back to Quincy, I want you to get your head straight about Summer. Either date, or befriend, or stay the fuck away from her. But you need to make a decision one way or the other because otherwise you’re going to drive her and yourself crazy and ruin the movie in the process.” Brad put sunglasses on and nodded to the door. “Let’s go.”
Cole waited like an obedient dog for Brad to pass, then he followed. When they stepped into the sun, he saw Justin. And beside him, her head tilted back in a laugh, was a strange brunette. He tensed, then saw Brad approach her, his hand wrapping around her waist. This must be the soulmate. So glad to know she was present to witness this train wreck.
“Julia,” Brad said. “This is—”
“Cole Masten,” she interrupted with a smile. “I’m aware. And I’m sorry for aiding my husband in his evil plot to destroy your breakfast.” She gripped DeLuca’s arm with affection, and Cole tersely nodded. The woman was obviously insane. Any woman who chose to spend a life with that man had a death wish. A vision of Summer on her porch flashed in his mind, how her eyes stuck to Brad, her warm smile at him, and Cole’s mood darkened further.
“Are we leaving?”
Brad shot him a warning look and kissed his wife, a kiss that lasted a breath too long, in Cole’s opinion. “There’s a driver up front in an S-Class. Do you want to use him, or would you prefer to drive?”
“I’ll use the driver. Get some shopping in while you boys work.” She hugged Justin, and Cole wondered, at what point in crazy time, she’d managed to break his shell. She turned to Cole, and he stiffened, not ready for a third pep talk this morning. “It was nice to meet you.” She stuck out a hand, and he breathed a sigh of relief, shaking her hand, his eyes catching the details. The rock on her finger. The tan skin, peeking out from a slouchy tee and capris. Her barely present makeup and long, natural hair. She released his hand, and he stopped himself from wondering if she’d be friends with Summer. This was ridiculous. The girl was stalking his thoughts.
His feet moved, following Brad and Justin to the front, a mini traffic jam caused by the crowd of hotel guests waiting in the lobby, their camera phones out. He swallowed. This place had only thirty suites, and every single resident must be there, on their toes, hands waving excitedly for his attention. He smiled, big and beautiful, his eyes dead behind his shades. Out front, steps away, his car. His retreat. He ducked into it, waiting for Justin, watching Brad step into an adjacent Mercedes, his wife taking an identical one. “You know where we’re going?” he growled to Justin, hitting the gas before the man’s door had safely shut.
“It was one mistake. I’ll have the manager fired. Don’t be an asshole about it.” Justin pointed to the outside lane. “Four lights down, take a right. It’ll be a block down.”
Cole’s tires squealed on their exit from the hotel, and it was the only sound until he pulled to a stop at their destination.
Either date, or befriend, or stay the fuck away from her. Those had been the options offered by DeLuca.
But how could he choose between three impossibilities?
CHAPTER 78
“In Hollywood, brides keep the bouquets and throw away the groom.”
~ Groucho Marx
Nadia was, as always, flawless. Cole studied her face, the perfect lines of her makeup, and wondered, as he often had, why she bothered with the team that arrived every morning, equipped with makeup brushes and extensions, their home’s dressing room turned into a circus for a valuable hour in the morning that’d be better served sleeping. She didn’t need all of it; she was beautiful without it. And for a day like today, for her to know she’d be sitting across from him, her jilted husband, the extra effort seemed cruel. But that was Nadia. She’d always wanted everyone to want her, especially those who she rejected. She looked up from the document and met his eyes.
“You have beautiful eyes.” The first line after their first screw, which had happened minutes after he’d walked into his trailer and found her stretched out on his bed. She’d said the word shyly, her feet sliding to the edge of the bed and off, and he’d shrugged.
“Thank you.” That had been his unimaginative response. He hadn’t needed imagination.
“They distract from your nose.” She had wrinkled her own and raised to her tiptoes, the movement pushing out her bare breasts. From her new height she had peered at his nose, then dropped to her heels again. Her breasts had bounced back into place; he had stared. “I have a guy, if you want a referral. He did my roommate’s nose. Really great work.”
“My nose?” It had drawn his attention away from her breasts and to her eyes. “Are you joking?” Even then, he’d been a superstar, one Oscar already in the bag. And his nose, broken twice—once from a fight and once from a snowboarding injury—was one of his trademarks. It took the polish off his pretty boy features and made him rugged. Now, looking back, he could see how calculated she’d been. Playing the part of the cool girl who wasn’t impressed by the big star. She’d played him hot and cold, didn’t fuck him again until a third date, and had him tie her up on the fifth. She’d been a porn star in the bedroom and used every bit of his money, power, and name to fuel her own star. She’d been an unscripted extra on that first movie. On his second, she’d played a minor role with lines. Then graduated to supporting roles. Five days after their wedding—a gaudy affair that had made every magazine cover—she got her first big-budget, starring role. From nothing to famous in a year.
He hadn’t been stupid; he’d known her a
mbition. It had been one of the things that had attracted him to her. And he’d been happy to help. But now, glancing down at the agreement, red pen marks all over the page, he wondered if there had ever been any love between them at all. Had he just been a mark, perfectly played?
“Okay, so we’ve worked through all of the assets. Cole will get the boat, plane, and the Montana ranch; Nadia will get the California and Hawaii real estate. All bank accounts will go to their respective owners with the joint account split, leaving five hundred thousand for any outstanding items and attorneys’ fees. Attorneys’ fees will also be split. Nadia’s future earnings will be hers, as will Cole’s.” The mediator stopped and looked to DeLuca, a stumble in her voice before continuing, “Nadia has agreed to forfeit all ownership or claims on The Fortune Bottle in exchange for five percent of recurring royalties on Cole’s current backlist of movies and endorsement deals.” She took a deep breath. “Do we all agree on the basics of this agreement?”
Cole looked at Nadia, who nodded, her mouth tight. She was pissed; he could see it in the small wrinkles around her mouth, in the glower of her eyes. He should have been happy about that, but he wasn’t. He was sick—over the day’s worth of arguments, over the reduction of their relationship to insignificant line items and who gets the fucking Picassos. Thank God for DeLuca, who’d been worth his weight in gold, and the mediator, a beady-eyed woman who was actually competent.
“Cole?” the mediator pushed. “Do you agree on the basics of this agreement?”
“Yes.” He kept his eyes on hers. If she backed out now, if she dragged this into court and further, he would let DeLuca off his leash to do everything the man had been fighting to do since he was hired.
“Nadia?”
The gap in between the question and her reply lasted years. Cole held his breath, his eyes on hers, the defiance in them ending in the moment that they fell to the table. “Yes,” she said in a wounded fashion, like she wasn’t walking out of there rich. At least she wasn’t getting The Fortune Bottle. At least he had one untainted thing in his life.
Summer came to mind and then left, a page pushed in front of him for his signature. “This is legally binding,” the mediator reminded them. “It will let the court know of your decision and will stand in place until your attorneys can draw up all of the corresponding paperwork.”
Cole scrawled his name and wondered how long it would take for the messy signature to show up online, the details of their separation spread open for anyone with an internet connection. Nadia understood, same as he did, the damage that this could do to their reputations – the hidden skeletons that mud slinging would bring out. It was why they had stayed relatively cordial during this process. It was also the only reason that they’d managed to reach an agreement during mediation, both of them opposed to court.
DeLuca waited until Nadia signed, her signature neat and perfect, then spoke, “We’ll be in touch with initial drafts of our agreements next week.”
“In a hurry, aren’t we?” Nadia spoke from her seat at the table, her eyes on Cole. Interesting words from a woman who served him divorce papers so quickly. He didn’t respond, just stood, grabbing his sunglasses off the table and putting them on.
“Nadia?” He smiled when she turned, her hand tugging on the handle of her Hermes. “It’s been an absolute pleasure.”
She smiled brightly, and the sum of their entire relationship could be condensed into that exchange: two actors playing their parts to perfection.
Sad that it took so long for him to finally see that.
CHAPTER 79
Cocky was freaking adorable. Entitled and adorable. Cole, apparently, didn’t think that a chicken could spend the night outside. He’d set up the downstairs bathroom for him, and I could pretty much guarantee you that Cyndi Kirkland would castrate him herself when she saw the state of it. I stood in the door and eyed the floor (covered in newspaper), the walls (pecked to bits), and the chicken poo, which had managed to paint the toilet, sink, tissue holder, and windowsill. The troublemaker stood on the toilet seat and tilted his head at me.
I had received, from some organizational freak of nature named Justin, a detailed list of items concerning Cocky’s care. The list included such ridiculousness as:
#8 Cocky gets scared by loud noises (dogs barking and the dryer). Please sit with him in this event and do not run a load of clothes in the dryer.
As well as:
#17 Cocky is accustomed to being taken out once during the night. Please take him into the backyard between the hours of midnight and six AM and allow him fifteen minutes to roam the yard. Make SURE that the fence is locked and do not allow him to jump or fly over the fence.
How does someone keep a chicken inside a fence? I had closed my eyes at that one, picturing Cocky running off into the cotton fields, and me, standing at the edge of the fence, hollering the rooster’s name like a crazy woman.
Cole’s lucky that it’s me chicken-sitting. Anyone else and his reputation in this town would be ruined. The locals, especially the men, would crucify him over this. I closed the door. According to Justin’s directions, Cocky’s bedtime is at nine. The previous night, I was a wild and cool babysitter and let him run around the backyard until ten. This night, with Cole coming home, I had him in his bathroom early. I couldn’t think straight with his baby wattle jiggling at me. I shut the door to his squawk and flipped off the hall light, heading up the stairs and toward Cole’s bedroom.
This was so stupid. Sitting here, waiting for him to come back. I didn’t want to be at Cole Masten’s beck and call. He’d made that comment in the heat of phone sex passion. He probably didn’t mean it. He’d probably walk in the door and scoff at me to get out of his house. I stepped into his room and smoothed the edge of the bedspread. I’d made the bed; I couldn’t help myself. Made it and thought, with every tuck, smooth, and tug, about him messing it back up with my body.
My fingers itched for activity. If I’d been in my house, I’d have cooked. Made some chocolate chip cookies and bagged up the extras for the crew. Even though Mary said that isn’t done, her eyebrows rising in alarm when I brought a carrot cake in for the prop master’s birthday. Apparently there was some bullshit line drawn between ‘talent’ and ‘crew,’ and we’d all burst into flames if any cordiality existed between the two. I was supposed to treat them like hired help, and they were supposed to like it.
I didn’t want to cook in his house. I already felt like some fifties housewife. I walked to the window and looked out over the dark field and toward the airport. I should go outside. I’d be able to see his plane from there.
When I stepped outside I realized I forgot my shoes. I think they were by Cocky’s bathroom, where I had slipped them off. I considered going back, but stepped out onto the front porch and to the steps. I sat on the first big step, the wood damp from the afternoon rain, and wrapped my arms around my knees, my head lifted toward the sky. It was cloudy, the moon brightly illuminating the clouds and shadows, bright points of stars dotting the black canvas beneath. I read in a magazine once about light pollution. It is a real thing, our millions of artificial lights eating away at our world’s darkness and ruining our ability to see the galaxies beyond us. Like smog, but instead of eating clean air, our lights eat pitch black, and leave us all in a haze of dusk. I could see it when I looked south to Tallahassee. The entire horizon glowed in that direction; the city lights diluting the big city residents their chance at perfect star gazing.
I didn’t think we’d ever have that problem in Quincy. Even with the Pit’s kliegs that ran constantly, crews working until late setting up for each next day… our sky was still perfect, its stars clearly defined.
I wondered, not for the first time since cashing my movie paycheck, where I would go from here. With more money than I’d ever had, I had no excuse to stay. I could buy Mama a house and move along with my life. I could move anywhere, do anything. Go to college, take art lessons, buy a horse.
Anything.
Above me, a plane approached.
“Well, sure, Scott cheated. He’s a man… they make mistakes. But you know, the Bible says that you should forgive them. Not bring the wrath of hell. That’s for God to do, not us. Our job is to forgive and forget.”
“Has your family forgiven Summer?
“Well, no. Some things are just unforgiveable, and what she did was one of them. If we all just forgave her, then she wouldn’t learn her lesson.”
CHAPTER 80
“Congrats man.” Justin walked from the back of the plane, his hand patting Cole’s shoulder as he passed. Taking the seat across from him, he popped the cap off a beer and held it out.
“I’m good.” Cole waved it off. “You sleep well?”
“I did ’til we hit that turbulence.” He shrugged. “It’ll be fine. My painkillers put me under, so I’ll pop a few of those when we get to your place.”
Cole shook his head. “No. You’re not staying with me.”
Justin’s beer stopped at his lips, his eyebrows raised. “I’m not?”
“No. Sorry. There’s a bed and breakfast in town. You can stay there.” Cole moved the curtain and glanced out the window.
Justin chuckled. “Anxious to get there?”
“I’m just tired of traveling. Plus, I can’t wait to see your reaction to Quincy.”
“It can’t be as bad as Bismarck. At least there’s no snow.”
Cole smiled. “It’s not Bismarck. Tomorrow, after filming, I’ll give you the tour.”
Justin glanced at his watch. “You’re really not letting me stay with you? I had my hopes set on seeing Casa Rooster.”
“Sorry.” Cole sat back in the seat. His fingers tapped against his leg, and he looked out, anxious for the small lights of Quincy.
He dropped Justin off at the Raine House and pulled off, the streets quiet, streetlights dim, the clock on the courthouse glowing in the dark. He hadn’t realized, with the time change, how late he would be getting back. Rubbing at an ache on the back of his neck, he contemplated calling Summer. It had been an inner debate that had lasted all day. He’d been holding back itchy fingers ever since she had hung up on him. Goodbye Cole. He shifted in his seat.