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I try her again.
And again.
Finally, at ten she answers.
“Where’ve you been?” I try to force my voice into something casual, but the question comes out harsher than I intended.
“Did you call earlier?”
“A few times.”
“Oh.” Her sigh of relief stabs me with guilt. “I would’ve picked up if I’d known it was you. I didn’t expect you to call until later.”
Great, so I scared the shit out of her with my constant calls and hang-ups. “Sorry. I was eager to talk to you tonight.”
“Everything go okay with Mark today? Did he sit you down for more career-counseling?” Normally the question would be teasing but her voice sounds too heavy. I wish I could see her face.
“We finished up the track I told you about last night.”
“Are you happy with it?”
“It’s all right.” I need to steer this back to her. Music’s the last thing I want to talk about. “Anything exciting happening to my favorite lifeguard?”
She snorts softly. “Just showers and jogging on the beach with a splash of demonic possession. Speaking of, I’m really tired and I need to be on set early.”
“Yeah, I’ll let you go.” So what if we usually stay on the phone until we’re both almost asleep? Some nights we have stuff to do and say goodnight earlier. “I love you.”
My heart trips when she doesn’t answer right away. “Love you too, Chaser. I miss you. A lot.”
More conflicted than ever, I stare at the phone for a long time after we hang up.
“Chaser, what’s going on?” Mark asks the next morning. “Things were moving along great yesterday. Then the rest of the afternoon…your spark’s gone. Talk to me.”
“Just some stuff.” Stuff like, I slept like shit. The more I thought about our brief phone call, the more worry gnawed at my gut. Mallory didn’t sound right. Was it guilt because she’d been out with Andrew and didn’t want to tell me? Or simple exhaustion and an early-morning call time like she said? Or something else I hadn’t thought of yet? Why didn’t I just point-blank ask her if what Pamela said was true?
Am I afraid of the answer? Or do I need to see her face when I ask?
Maybe I should’ve called Andrew to feel him out. But no, he can’t lie for shit and if I detect a hint that Andrew’s been sniffing around Mallory, I’ll need to beat the shit out of him. And I can’t do that over the phone.
That’s why I’m headed home this afternoon.
Mark blows out a breath and taps his fingers against the desk. “You guys have accomplished a lot in the short time you’ve been here. Truly. I’m impressed.” He circles his fingers in front of my face. If anyone else did that, I’d slap their fucking hand into next week. “But this whole attitude of despair you have going on, isn’t good for the process.”
“I don’t have an attitude of despair.” No, what I have is a plane ticket to L.A. waiting for me.
We’re both quiet for a few seconds, staring each other down. Finally, he relents. “I’ve been working the four of you really hard. Let’s get a rough cut of ‘Always Be Mine’ finished today and I’ll let you guys have a three-day weekend off to recharge your creative batteries. Sound fair?”
One way or another I’ll be on a plane to L.A. later today, but I pretend to graciously accept his “offer.” “Thanks, Mark. I think that’s exactly what I need. Some time to recharge.”
Recharge. Beat the shit out of Andrew. One or the other.
Mark’s wrong. I’m not in despair. I’m pissed.
Anger is a much more useful emotion than despair.
Problem is, I can’t figure out who I’m angry with. Pamela? Andrew? Mallory?
Or myself?
Doesn’t matter. The only thing I know for sure is I’m headed home to get some answers.
I’m not losing my girl without a fight.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chaser
My flight home’s easy. I call a cab, and I’m at our house by six o’clock. Mallory’s car isn’t in the driveway. Nothing suspicious about that. She’s at the studio late plenty of times.
I drop my bag in the bedroom and wander through the house. Nothing out of place. No sign anyone’s been here except Mallory.
What am I doing?
Did I really fly all the way down here based on some fairytale my friend’s ex concocted?
What’s my plan? Pounce on my fiancée when she walks in the door? Accuse her of fucking around with Andrew? All because Pamela said so?
That makes zero sense.
Irritated with myself, I run my hands through my hair. We can’t go this long without seeing each other. Missing Mallory so much has fucked with my head.
There’s my answer.
That’s why I’m here. I missed Mallory and wanted to surprise her with a visit. Mark gave us the weekend off. The fact that I already planned to come down here to do…I don’t know what isn’t important.
Dinner. I’ll make her dinner. Set up some candles. Music. The whole romantic bit, so she’ll be surprised instead of suspicious when she comes home.
Now that I’ve got a plan, I roll my bike out of the garage and ride down to the store for a few groceries.
She’s still not home when I return—again, not unusual. I kick off my shoes and start working on dinner. Fish tacos—the first meal we ever shared together.
The doorbell rings. Motherfuck, if it’s a reporter, I’m spilling blood.
I fling the door open and find an enormous vase of plump pink roses in my face. “Mallory?” The person holding them asks.
“No,” I snap.
The delivery guy cranes his neck around the flowers. “Does she live here?”
“Yeah.” The knot in my gut tightens to a painful degree. I accept the vase from the guy with both hands. “I’ll make sure she gets them.”
Without giving him a chance to answer, I kick the door shut. “You’ve got to be motherfucking kidding me.”
I don’t even have to read the card to know who they’re from. Same fucking arrangement Andrew bought for Pamela. For such a creative genius, he sure sucks in the flower department.
Since he sent the flowers to my fiancée, I feel entitled to pluck the card out of the envelope.
Dear Mallory,
Thank you for being such a beautiful person inside and out. Looking forward to Saturday's shoot.
Your friend,
Andrew
Red. Motherfucking red stains my vision. Christ, I probably popped a blood vessel. Mallory will come home and find me bleeding out on the floor.
Breathe.
In and out.
Deep breaths. One after the other.
Roses don’t mean shit.
Innocent.
Inexperienced.
Regrets.
My father’s words weren’t a warning—they were a motherfucking hex.
Friend? Andrew isn’t friends with women. He fucks, uses, and discards them. Friendship isn’t part of the equation.
Beautiful person inside and out. What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Did they—? Am I too late?
The rage monster beating against my skull wants to smash the vase against the wall.
After several deep breaths, I calmly set the vase down on the entryway table, and pad into the kitchen to turn off the stove. I move through the house in a fog, flicking off every light, except for a small lamp next to the roses.
Finally, I drop my ass into the chair that gives me the best view of the front door.
And I wait.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Mallory
This has been the worst day. The director yelled at me more times than I care to remember. Pamela kept shooting me smug little smiles that I couldn’t decipher. We filmed some scenes at the beach and I swear there’s still sand in my underwear. I’m damp, shivering, and longing to change into something warm and cozy.
At least my shitty day helped me forget about the cat
astrophe at Andrew’s last night.
I trudge into the house and drop my bags by the door. Coming home to an empty house is wearing on me. I usually leave more lights on so it doesn’t seem so gloomy. But there’s only one lamp lit by the door, illuminating a giant bouquet of pink roses.
My heart stutters.
Where did they come from? Someone was in my house?
Recognizing Andrew’s handwriting on the outside of the envelope, stalls my freak-out. I pick up the card. My nervous gaze darts around the dark and shadowy room, afraid he’ll jump out at any moment. I eye the long umbrella in the corner. I am so jamming the pointy end into his crotch if he broke into my house.
