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The other day she’d told him that he looked in control of his life. Hardly. Before the accident, he’d been in control on and off the ice. He’d controlled his personal life as well as his chaotic career. He’d controlled the sometimes out-of-control antics of his fellow teammates, and he’d controlled who walked into his home.
A nagging ache settled in his hip and thigh as he moved through the door and into the kitchen. He reached inside a drawer and pulled out a bottle of Vicodin. Now he controlled neither. He opened the bottle and looked down at the white pills spilling into his palm. It would be so easy. So easy to take a handful. To pop them into his mouth like PEZ and forget all his problems. To let the strong opiate do more than take away his pain. To let it numb his brain and pull him into a nice, cozy place where nothing mattered.
He thought of Chelsea and their conversation about control....
He thought of Chelsea playing hockey in her little skirt. If he wasn’t very, very careful, he might end up liking her too much too.
Friday night when Bo got home from work, she handed Chelsea a business card. On the front was the name and information of a media company that the Chinook organization used to produce all their commercials. Handwritten on the back was the name and number of the talent agency they used.
“I thought you might be interested,” Bo said. “Most of the time we use the players in our advertising, but sometimes we use local actors.”
She looked the card over and checked out the agency on the Internet. She’d be in Seattle for several more months. Depending on where she decided to have her breast surgery, maybe longer. She had to figure out something to do with her time, other than watch TV, go to nightclubs, answer Mark Bressler’s fan e-mail, and set up appointments with real estate agents. So why not? If she didn’t like the talent agency, she’d know within moments of walking in the doors. No harm, no foul. She’d take her résumé and leave.
On her way to work Monday, she called the agency and set up a meeting for Tuesday when Mark would be coaching Derek. An hour later, she switched cars and drove Mark to see the house in Bellevue. The seven-thousand-square-foot mansion on the waterfront in Newport Shores was filled with hand-crafted parquet flooring and massive oak timbers. The huge windows at the rear of the house looked out over a large backyard with a cabana and spa next to the swimming pool. It had a bar and a temperature-controlled wine room. As for opulence, it was on par with the house he currently lived in and had the added bonus of being priced a million dollars less.
&nbs
p; Mark stood in the pantry about the size of Bo’s entire apartment and said, “I don’t need a house this big.”
Chelsea was pretty sure she’d told him the total square footage before they left his house.
“And I don’t want to live behind gates,” he added.
He’d never mentioned his aversion to gates, but if he’d looked at the information about the house that she’d printed out for him, he would have known. After they left the estate, she looked at him across the Mercedes and asked, “Do you sit around and think up ways to be difficult or is it a natural reflex? Like breathing.”
He put his mirrored glasses on the bridge of his nose. “I thought I was being nice today.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah.” He shrugged.
She shook her head. “I didn’t notice.” She paid more attention as she drove him to the dentist. And she supposed if sitting in uncomfortable silence equaled being nice for him, then yeah, he was nice. But an hour later on the way home from the dentist, he totally blew it with his horrid backseat driving again. Oddly enough, sh fe found it more relaxing than his efforts to be nice.
“The light’s about to turn red.”
“It’s still yellow,” she pointed out as she sped through the intersection. “I thought you were going to be nice.”
“I can’t when I’m worried about getting killed. Are you sure you have a valid driver’s license?”
“Yes. Issued by the state of California.”
“Well, that explains it.”
Behind her sunglasses she rolled her eyes and changed the conversation. “Did you have cavities?”
“It wasn’t that kind of appointment. He just wanted to check my implants to make sure they are still okay.”
Chelsea knew about dental implants. She had a friend who’d knocked out her front teeth in a surfing accident. The dentist had drilled screws into her upper jaw, then stuck porcelain crowns on the spikes. If a person hadn’t known she’d had her teeth knocked out, you wouldn’t be able to tell. “How many do you have?”
“Three implants and four crowns.” He pointed to the top left side of his mouth. “I’m lucky.”
She wondered what he considered unlucky.
Tuesday afternoon she took her portfolio to the talent agency in downtown Seattle. She met with the owner, Alanna Bell, who reminded Chelsea a little of Janeane Garafalo. But the Janeane of ten years ago, before the actress had turned all bitter about life.
“What’s your real hair color?” Alanna asked as she riffled through a file folder.
“The last I checked, it was brown.”
