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“I don’t want this to end,” I admit before we’re even out of Vegas. Meaning the road trip, but our expiration date in a few months is in the back of my mind.
“Me neither,” she admits. Her full lips curve into a smile as she looks at me. “Take the scenic route.”
We do. I take NV-160 and we drive. Anywhere. It doesn’t matter because this is freedom. The open road, Ash by my side. Talking. Enjoying silence. All of it. Nothing’s ever going to be as good as this.
The hot wind whips up her platinum blonde hair and sunshine turns it into a glowing halo. Her bare lips curl into a smile at my wild story aboutThe Last Best Manwrap party, and maybe it’s the warm desert evening or the hum of the engine, but I’m content.
This bubble we’re in feels so real.
We drive into Malibu just after midnight, our bubble coming up against Michael’s expectations and the lie I have to live up to. Passing through the gate, it pops. Ash feels it too, I think. She lets out a sad little sigh.
Desire to turn around, to go back to driving aimlessly with Ash, hits me, and all at once I’m too hot and too cold. My palms go damp on the steering wheel, but I have to see this through. I’m close to the lofty heights Michael wanted for me.
Besides, I still have time with Ash. My schedule is mostly empty for another week before pre-production starts for me. After that, a quick press tour for the premiere ofThe Last Best Manwill take me out of town for a little over a week. Then filming begins. We’ll still be fake dating, so I’ll still get to see her. Just not as much as I’d like.
It has to be enough.
Ashley’s eyes go wide as the house comes into view.
“Holy shit,” she says.
The Moorish-style mansion glitters in the dark, palm trees lit from below in the courtyard, the long pool glimmering to our right through the trees as we drive in.
Ostentatious in its simplicity, there’s something beautiful but haughty about it. A home for Hollywood royalty, for gods of the screen. Fit for Michael Sinclair, but this house has never felt like home to me. I haven’t earned it yet. Something I’m acutely aware of when I look up at it.
“It was Michael’s,” I say, slowing for the garage door. “He built it years ago. Left it to me when he died.”
When I came out to LA to pursue a career in acting, Michael insisted I take the guest house, and while I was welcomed into the main house anytime, I was young and valued my sudden independence. Not that Michael let me stray too far from his vision for me. LA parties were off-limits unless he or a chaperone came along to one deemed an appropriate networking opportunity.
Michael didn’t believe in active nepotism. I had to rise on my own merits. Not that the Sinclair name didn’t open doors for me, or living in this house and meeting people Michael knew didn’t help me in any way. It gave me a considerable boost, but I still worked hard to get where I am.
I grab a couple of our bags and Ash slips her hand into mine as we go inside.
The interior is all smooth, crisp white walls with tasteful contemporary artwork in shades of blue and copper. Rugs with simple patterns in blues and whites. Wood floors, delicate wrought iron rails with filigrees, and arches everywhere. Cora’s light touch in a couple of places, but mostly, this house was Michael. Large enough to hold secrets, like the occasional visits of a “family friend.”
We leave our stuff in my bedroom and Ash stares out the massive window at the Pacific for a few minutes.
“It’s beautiful.” Her voice is soft and dreamy.
It is. Ash standing in my bedroom in my T-shirt is even more beautiful. I go to her, wrap my arms around her, and kiss her because I want to and I can and one day I won’t be able to. It’s bittersweet. “There’s ice cream in the freezer,” I whisper against her lips and she smiles.
We go down to the kitchen and I sit her on the island and pull out the ice cream. I stand between her legs because I need to touch her and we feed each other spoonfuls until we end up kissing again, ice cream forgotten.
A loud, sudden clatter from the doorway makes Ash scream. I jump.
David’s travel mug rolls on the floor as he stares at us, his jaw on the ground.
Shit. I forgot about him.
“David lives in the guest house,” I say to Ash, who’s clutching her chest. I turn to David with a stern look. “And from now on, he’ll text or knock.”
He nods and quickly picks up his mug. “I’ll clean this up and go. Sorry.”
Reluctantly, I leave my spot between Ash’s knees and pull out some paper towels, tossing them to him.
“I thought you might want to go over your schedule,” he says, his ears red.
He emailed it to me and there’s nothing about it that needs going over. He’s here to ask me how things went on the road, and I guess now he knows.
