Page 17 of Breaking Hollywood

“It’s nature’s very own painkiller.”

“Yeah, whiskey brewed in a factory is nature’s way of easing pain.” She rolls her eyes.

“How do you know it was whiskey I drank? It could’ve been water.”

“Was it?”

“No.”

She laughs.

I get a sharp pain in my foot. My brows pinch together.

I get my flask from my pocket and take another drink of whiskey.

“Just take some pain medication if it hurts that much.”

“No.”

“God, you’re stubborn.”

“God, you’re annoying.”

And I’m five years old again. Why exactly do I act like a child around this chick? I’m three seconds away from pulling her hair and pushing her to the floor.

But, even still, I like arguing with her. It’s fun. And kind of hot.

“Speedy?”

“What?”

“Will you argue with me? It’s what’s been distracting me from the pain this whole time.”

“So, you’d rather argue with me than take pain pills?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m odd.”

“I already figured that. I’ll make you a deal. You tell me why you won’t take pain pills, and I’ll argue with you to your heart’s content.”

No way am I telling her that. I don’t tell anyone anything about myself because, if I did, I’d be reading about it on Radar Online an hour later.

“Forget it.” I pull my ball cap off, toss it on Tate’s desk, and run my fingers through my hair. Then, I shut my eyes, tip my head back, and breathe through the pain.

“Your last movie was shit by the way.”

A grin spreads across my face.

I open my eyes and look at her. “As shit as your driving?”

She holds back a smile. “My driving could never be as shit as your acting.”

“So, you’re saying that all my movies are bad. Yet you’ve watched them all.”

“I never said I watched them all. I said, your last one was bad.”