You and Me, For Real (Hollywood Hills #1)

1. Ashton

ASHTON

S ometimes, you have to pull up your big-girl panties and face your fears.

But this is not that moment, my friend.

No, this is a moment for hiding on a pile of dog food bags in a dark storage closet while cramming a Snickers bar into one’s mouth.

My taste buds temporarily hijack my focus off my looming fate—facing a camera for the first time in five years—and on to the delicious combination of chocolate, caramel, and peanuts.

The door opens, and a beam of light rudely interrupts my blissful sanctuary, ushering in the California Bay Animal Shelter’s overwhelming yet familiar scents of unwashed dogs, excrement, and the bleach that tries to mask it.

I squint into the light. Marissa appears. Her fifty-bajillion Swiftie bracelets jingle as she puts her hand on her hip. “Lynn said it’s time.”

Vehemently, I shake my head like the petulant child I know I’m being and mumble through my mouthful of food escapism, “No fank you.”

Marissa leans on the door, flips her dark ponytail over her shoulder, and crosses her arms. “She said you’d be like this.”

Of course Lynn did. It’s because she’s practically a surrogate mother to me and knows me better than anyone—especially more than my own mom ever did.

She’s the reason I even had the idea to start a privately funded rescue to begin with.

She gave me a fresh start and a new family, just like I hope to do for dogs.

Illuminated only by the hall light, Marissa’s facial features are unreadable, and yet, I can hear her eye-roll. “She told me to tell you she promises you won’t have to speak in front of the camera.”

Yeah, right .

“She’ll do all the talking for you.”

As the shelter’s manager, it makes sense she’d talk about the adoption day we’re advertising, but she shouldn’t have to speak for my rescue center. I crumple the Snickers wrapper between my hands, clasping my fingers together tightly.

From Marissa’s gentle coaxing, you would think she’s the adult in this situation, but you’d be wrong. I am seven years older than her sweet, sweet, sixteen-year-old self.

I’ve reached a new level of pathetic.

“Okay.” I stand, attempting to obtain a semblance of bravery, knowing I’d be a fool to miss this opportunity.

While the news crew may be here promoting the California Bay Animal Shelter’s adoption day, it’s a great opportunity to plug my start-up rescue center—something I’ve been dreaming about for years but unable to make headway on with grant funding.

Now, I’m shifting to seek donations instead.

It’s a bit hard to do when you mostly interact with four-legged furry friends.

“What’s the big deal? It’s just one news reporter. She seems nice.”

I understand her confusion. To everyone else, this opportunity is amazing. But I’ve had plenty of moments in the spotlight. I’m not eager for it again, regardless of what it can do for the shelter and rescue. I’m quite content in my quiet corner of life, and I’d like to keep it that way.

I, too, used to be trusting and open-minded.

But that was a long time ago. I can barely remember my all-too-brief childhood before it was stolen for the world’s entertainment.

It’s not Marissa’s fault she doesn’t know about my sordid past with being filmed.

I’ve only ever told Lynn about my fears of my mom and sister finding me, and the media connecting me with my past. I wouldn’t dare put my trauma on her delicate shoulders by trying to explain how it only takes a single clip for your life to be turned upside down.

Nope. I’ll just bottle up that complicated crazy and zip it tight.

Like any normal, considerate person would do.

I turn to the shelves and adjust our spare medical kits. “I’ll be there in five.” I need a few more minutes of breathing exercises and mental pep-talk.

Instead of leaving as I’d hoped, she extends her arm, examining her freshly painted nails. “Lynn said to wait for you.”

Not a care in the world, this girl. I envy her.

Lynn, despite pushing seventy, is sharper than a tack. She knows I’m tempted to bolt out the shelter’s back door to freedom. I shake out my arms and hands in an attempt to fling my anxiety and expel it from my body. I wipe my sweaty palms on my scrubs, ignoring the dog hair that clings to both.

“You look like you’re about to puke.”

Thank you for that accurate insight, Marissa. I shake my head. The candy bar sludge creeps up my throat. Swallowing hard, I lock it down, clamp my lips shut, and force myself into the hallway, straightening my spine.

Behind me, Marissa says, “She said to grab a couple of dogs for the interview.”

I nod, agreeing to the laughable task Lynn has placed on my shoulders.

The shelter is overflowing with dogs. Which dog would best promote the shelter?

Which would best plead with their innocent eyes, convey “adopt me,” and alleviate the stress from the city shelter’s overwhelming need for adoptions?

Sure thing, boss. No pressure.

I walk the kennels. Marissa trails behind, carrying a couple of leashes in preparation for the lucky star in this news spotlight. Each dog begs for love, a home, and a new chance. I know exactly how they feel. It’s up to me to pull it together and give them the opportunity they deserve.

I come to Brutus’s kennel, a short and stocky brown-and-white American Staffordshire Terrier. He eagerly wags his tail, his chocolate eyes pleading with me to pick him. I’ve been working with him on a few commands, and he’s responded well to instruction.

“Brutus, sit.” He immediately follows my command, his tail still thumping against the concrete, his excitement uncontainable.

I hold up my finger. “Stay.” I unlock the cage, still holding my signal.

His tail thumps impossibly faster and his body wiggles slightly, but he remains sitting.

He allows me to place the slip leash around his neck.

“Good boy.” I reach into my pouch and retrieve a treat, which he gobbles in one chomp.

Post-treat, Brutus thinks he’s won and bursts out of the kennel. I respond to his reaction with calm and strength, gripping his leash. “Brutus, stay.” Despite his excitement, he obeys, halting his tugging. “Good.” I made the right selection.

“How about you grab Starla?” I point to a couple of kennels down where a sweet and gentle, but elderly (for a shelter), spaniel lies in her pitiful excuse for a bed. She’s six, turned in by a woman who was moving into a nursing home and could no longer care for her.

Once Starla is leashed, the four of us soldier down the hallway, my heart palpitating as though I’m headed into battle.

And a battle it is because half my brain is screaming to run.

Escape. Hide. I move robotically toward the entrance of the shelter, dodging the mobile crates we’re forced to use due to the shelter overextending its max capacity.

I’d bring all the dogs home if I could, but as it stands, I have my fair share of troubles—cramming not only my own dog, Teddy, but also two young fosters into my measly sized apartment.

I inhale one more gigantic breath through my nostrils before confidently striding through the swinging doors into the welcome center where the news crew waits.

At least, this is what it internally feels like, but brains lie.

The accuracy of this impression is proven false when Marissa pushes my back.

“Come on. You’re walking slower than a three-legged sloth.”

Bossy little thing. So much for superiority around here.

Lynn’s silver bangs swoop to the side as she turns toward our entrance. She maintains her smile for the camera, yet somehow manages to make her eyes say, “Trust me.”

You know those dogs that dig in their hind legs and stretch out their front paws to resist getting into the bathtub? Yeah, that’s me.

Only, there is no carpet to resist against, nor dirt to dig my heels into, so Marissa easily pushes me forward like I’m a shopping cart and she’s on Supermarket Sweep .

“Ah. Here we go.” Lynn extends her arm to welcome us into their circle.

You can do this, Ashton, you can do this. For the dogs. They need you.

I force my face into a smile, bile rising into my throat. My armpits are noticeably damp. A trickle of sweat runs down my back. My throat tightens. My eyes dart to the blinking red light on the camera. Are they filming right now ? Is this live? No one said anything about this being live.

“Aw, they’re just adorable, aren’t they?”

My brain registers that the reporter has spoken. She’s a woman not much older than me with brown hair cropped short and styled in curls at the end. She bends and greets Starla, who had raced around obedient Brutus like she was coming to the final curve of a racetrack.

Marissa shoots me a look that says, “What’s wrong with you?”

I thought I’d worked through this, but having a camera shoved in my face is quickly proving me wrong.

The reporter gestures to Brutus. “What a calm boy this big guy is.”

Lynn jumps in, filling in for my awkward social gap. “Yes, he’s been with us a couple of weeks. Ashton has been working on commands with him. He’s been a great student, but then again, he has a great teacher.” She winks at me.

As if this will soften the non-existent and yet beaming spotlight now shining on me. Really, Lynn?

“Impressive.” The reporter bends to scratch behind Brutus’s ears. I note how impeccable her dark pantsuit is and worry about the dog hair souvenirs she’ll leave with.

“Ashton is quite talented with dogs.” Lynn draws the reporter’s attention again.

My face heats. I know where she’s going with this—the segue into my rescue’s mission. We’ve practiced this.

I’m not ready. I’m not ready.

“She’s planning to open her own nonprofit animal rescue with a focus on rehabilitating dogs with behavioral issues.

That is, once she secures funding. We could certainly use the help off-loading some of our animals here at the California Bay Animal Shelter.

” She smiles at the camera, delivering our rehearsed line flawlessly.

The reporter’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows elevate up her forehead. “Oh, really? What’d you say your name is?”

I swallow a pile of rocks, panic tightening my chest. My heart accelerates. My vision narrows. My stance wobbles.

What if Mom sees this? Or Cecily? Is this really worth the risk?

“Ashton Reid.” Lynn’s cool hand clasps over mine. My brain registers the slow release of the leash from my grip, transferring to Lynn’s.

Why do I have to be on camera? There’s got to be another way…

The news reporter leans in. “I’d love to chat with you about this. The animal community in California could certainly use additional resources?—”

The perky voice of the reporter fades. A ringing vibrates in my ears as my hands shake. All I see are flashes of light, blurs of shadows, bodies pressing closer. People shouting my name. Not Ashton Reid, but Ashton Blake.

Ms. Blake, do you have a comment? Ms. Blake, what do you have to say for yourself?

I stumble back.

Face my fears—I cannot.

I don’t think. I just do.

And I run in the opposite direction.