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Cliff watches her run out the door and asks, “Something going on between the two of you?”
I drop down on the couch. “I have a girlfriend.”
“Do you? Did you make it official?”
“Haven’t talked about it. Not sure it matters. Love doesn’t know titles.”
He blinks at me. “Did you just quote Breezeo?”
I shrug.
“Anyway,” he says, whipping out a piece of paper. “I need to go through a few things with you since you have the time. Production wraps in two days, and we’ll want to keep momentum going.”
I scan the paper when he hands it to me. A tentative schedule he coordinated with my agent. Meetings. Auditions. Offers. Not to mention entire weeks blocked off by PR for promotion. I glance back at the top and shake my head when I see the date. “Can’t do it.”
June 2 @ 4pm
“Excuse me?” Cliff says.
“I can’t do the first meeting.”
“Why not?”
“My daughter’s in a play.”
“A play.”
“Yes,” I say. “I promised her I’d be there, so I’m leaving the second we wrap.”
Cliff stares at me. “Any other conflicts we should know about? Maybe some PTO meetings we need to work around? Chaperoning field trips? Disney on Ice, maybe?”
His voice sounds so condescending that I want to throw him out of my fucking trailer, but seeing as I have a trailer thanks to his hard work, that’s probably not a good idea.
“I’ll keep you posted,” I say, setting the paper down.
“I’d appreciate it,” he says before walking out, shutting the door harder than usual.
Sighing, I drop my head down low and close my eyes, exhausted. Exasperated. I barely get a minute of peace before Jazz peeks her head in. “All clear?”
“Yeah,” I mumble. “He’s gone.”
She steps into the trailer, holding out a can of Red Bull. “Brought you a present.”
“I could kiss you for that,” I say, grabbing it, popping the top and taking a drink.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” she says. “I’ve read all about the places those lips have been.”
Despite filming across the border, in Jersey City, we still stay at the usual hotel in Midtown. I meet up with Jack once I get to the city, the car service dropping me off at his basement apartment.
“Nice place,” I say when I step inside, glancing around. It’s tiny, and dim, and reminds me of a cave. Posters wallpaper the place, and my eyes go straight to a Breezeo one. It’s not me. Not even the movie. It’s a poster of the Ghosted cover—same poster Kennedy had on the wall as a teenager. “Thought you weren’t a Breezeo fan.”
“Never said that,” Jack says. “I said the movies were shit and you didn’t deserve to be in them. There’s a difference.”
Shaking my head, I hand him the paper from Cliff. “Got a schedule for you.”
He takes it as he plops down in a computer chair. “Do they leave you any time to sleep?”
“Occasionally,” I say. “My manager's a bit of a hardass.”
“Why do you put up with that?”
“Because he’s good at what he does,” I say. “And because I signed a contract agreeing to do whatever he tells me.”
“How long is your contract for?”
“It renews every year.”
“How do you un-renew it?”
“That’s not even a real word.”
“Oh, just answer the question, asshole.”
“I send a certified letter saying I’m not renewing.”
He nods, setting the paper aside. “I’ll keep that in mind for when you start bitching to me that you haven’t slept in six months.”
“You do that,” I say. “Thanks, Jack.”
I leave, making the trek to the hotel a few blocks away, managing to avoid any crowds. Stepping into the lobby, a loud disruption catches my attention, coming from the bar. Serena sits there, surrounded by people, socializing. She has a drink in her hand, empty shot glasses on the bar in front of her, so there’s no question it’s alcohol.
Tomorrow, on set, she’s going to be hell.
I turn away, knowing talking to her is a lost cause, when a flash catches my eye across the lobby. A man is snapping photos, a man I recognize—the one from Hollywood Chronicles.
“Hey!” I start toward him as he moves through the lobby to leave. “Hey, you! Hold up!”
The guy doesn’t stop, going straight outside.
I catch up to him on the sidewalk out front, trying to get his attention, but he isn’t paying attention. Seriously? The vultures circle me every damn day trying to get me to talk, but the one time I have something to say, the jackass runs?
I fist his shirt and yank him to a stop before shoving him against the side of the building, pinning him there. He looks stunned, raising an eyebrow. “That’s assault.”
“And what you’re doing is harassment.”
“I’m just doing my job,” he says. “Not my problem you don’t like that my job includes taking pictures of you glaring at your drunk wife surrounded by men.”
