Page 24 of Touch Me

I let my words trail off, because it’s just so horrible.“How could you?” My voice is barely a whisper.

“Jamie, please.” I hear the contrition in his voice, but Idon’t care.

I’m already walking away.

* * * *

I’m a complete mess as I storm out of the house, takingnothing but my purse and my still-dead phone. I consider grabbing one of thecharging cables that is among the clutter on the table in the garage, but Idon’t. I don’t need the map; I know exactly where I’m going.

And I don’t need Ryan tracking me or calling me. Not now.Not while I’m this pissed.

I regret the decision when I reach the end of the privatestreet that we share with Nikki and Damien. He’d built it a few years ago,essentially extending his already long driveway, for the primary purpose ofkeeping the public further away. Today, however, further isn’t better. Becausethe only way I’m going to get off the property is to go through the crowd ofcamera-clicking fiends who are gathered at the gate, just waiting to snap apicture.

Fuck.

I have an old ball cap on the floor, and I consider puttingit on. But I don’t. Fuck them. They’re reporting bullshit, and they’ll know itsoon enough. Maybe some will have a conscious and feel bad. I doubt it, but Itell myself I don’t care. That’s the price I have to pay if I want this life,and considering the expectations for Dead Certain, I might as wellstart getting used to it.

From the paparazzi. But from my husband? Assumptions andaccusations?

I tell myself to stop thinking about it. All that willaccomplish is making me cry again, and that’s definitely not the look I want asI drive past the parasites.

Instead, I roll down my windows, crank up The Rolling Stones“Satisfaction,” and keep my eyes straight ahead as I navigate theFerrari through the crowd of human leeches, then toward the Hollywood Hills.

I keep the music on as I drive, the radio tuned to classicrock and me singing along. Not only does it keep my mind from replaying thatbullshit conversation with Ryan, it keeps me from thinking about all the otherbullshit, too. Just me and the music and the wind whipping my hair as I takethe hills and curves of Mulholland at a speed that would make Ryan cringe.

Well, too fucking bad.

I arrive at the house a full five minutes earlier than mybest time when there was no traffic at all. Of course, that extra five minutesis wasted by the fact that I have to park around the curve since everyone elsein the neighborhood has grabbed all the good spaces. For a moment I just sit inthe parked car, my hands so tight on the wheel that my knuckles are white.

That was an old Jamie thing to do—taking the curves at thatspeed. New Jamie knows better. New Jamie’s getting her shit together. She’smarried. She’s pregnant.

She doesn’t need to take a curve too fast and fly out intospace.

I shiver, only then realizing that I’ve pressed my hand overmy belly. I pull it away, grimacing, then get out of the car and walk to thefrosted-glass front door. I ring the bell, and when no one answers, I letmyself in.

Ollie—the third in the me, Nikki, Ollie BFF trifecta—boughtthe house for a song a while back when he quit practicing law and moved back toLos Angeles to work for the FBI. The fact that property in the Hollywood Hillsrarely goes for a song is testament to what a dump this place was when hebought it.

It’s not a dump now. It’s absolutely stunning and the viewis incredible. He’d been single when he bought it. Now he lives with hishusband, Trevor, who works under Ryan at Stark Security.

And as far as I can tell, neither Ollie nor Trev are here.

Damn.

I make myself at home, taking advantage of the chargingstation in the kitchen to plug in my phone. I raid the pantry and find apackage of Chips Ahoy, so I pour myself a glass of milk to go with them. I takemy snack back to the living room, stretch out on the couch, and waste thirtyminutes scrolling through the infinite choices on the various streamingservices.

In the end, I wind up watching myself in Intercontinental,over-analyzing the delivery of every line, the purpose of every expression.

The movie did well—very well. But I want Dead Certain todo better. And that means I have to do better.

I was never one for over-studying. That was Nikki. Althoughto be honest, she didn’t actually need to study. Me? I needed to. I justdidn’t. Like I really cared if I could solve a differential equation or diagrama sentence.

But acting? Yeah, I’ll dive deep to study that.

I’m rewinding the first love scene back to the beginning forthe third time when I hear the beeps of the entry code and the whir of thelock. I look up, then watch as Ollie and Trevor enter together, arm in arm.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” I say, making Ollie jump.

He runs his fingers through his wavy hair. “Dammit, Jamie,you scared the shit out of me.” I’m still not used to him without glasses, andthe worry—and relief—is right there in his eyes. “And why haven’t you answeredour texts?”