Cruel Summer Vows (Summers in Seaside)

Chapter 1

ONE

RYAN

The phone in my bag rings for the tenth time. I reach into my duffle bag as I jerk forward, walking toward the beach rental. Irritation gnaws at me when I see who’s calling.

Frank. My manager for close to fifteen years.

“Hello, Frank. Fancy hearing from you. It’s like we didn’t just talk on the phone three or so hours ago back when I was at LAX.”

My voice is gruff, gravelly. Too gruff. Too gravelly. Too much of my fake persona creeping in even when I don’t need it to. This is the voice I use when I’m masking my identity out in public, along with using a face covering to hide familiar features the entire world recognizes.

The fake voice is becoming so familiar to me I’m slipping into it.

“Just checking on you,” Frank says with his thick Boston accent, even though he hasn’t lived in Massachusetts for over thirty years. “I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

I sigh a little too dramatically—which unfortunately fits, given my acting profession. Thing is, quite frankly , Frank’s calling me for one reason alone. We both know it.

“Don’t bullshit me, man,” I say. “You’re the one person I don’t need bullshitting me right now. Yes, I actually got on the plane. And no, I didn’t just sneak back home. And no, I will not call her.”

Her . She who shall not be named. Even though my deepest inner desire is to drive back to PDX in my Porsche rental, hop back on a plane, and race to Jasmine’s house in the Hollywood Hills and fucking ask her to be my forever.

Fuck. Said her name again.

Dammit .

Don’t mess around with married women.

It never ends well.

Even more importantly, don’t mess around with married women who are not only starring in the same show as you—but their husband is starring alongside both of you in the very same show.

I haven’t always made the smartest choices.

But fuck, what can I say? I’m a passionate guy who fell for a woman in a bad place. So sue me.

No, wait. Don’t sue me. I’d prefer not to be sued, actually.

“You sure you’re not in contact with her?” Frank asks, and I can picture him smiling with his round face and wisps of white hair. He always smiles. Even during the grimmest situations.

“You gonna send someone to check on me, Santa?” I ask.

“Hey, watch it, kid. You’re in too much hot water right now to be throwing around that Santa shit.”

I smirk. “Then how about a picture of me here, giving you the finger? Enough proof for ya?”

“Fuck you right back.” Frank grunts, a slight chuckle at the end of his sentence. I imagine the way he must look right now, sitting by his mahogany desk, with a hand over his forehead as he’s leaning back in his office chair and shaking his head. Wondering what he’s going to do with his client, and friend (still friend, I hope), who’s currently swimming in the deep end in a pool full of shit.

See, by sleeping with the woman who shall not be named—who fully consented and was the one to put the moves on me, by the way—it enraged her husband to the point where he ended up fighting me. During one of our shows. Shows that are filmed in front of a live studio audience.

Audience members aren’t supposed to have a phone on the sound stage while we’re filming. It’s verboten.

Well, someone had a phone. (Gee, shocker there).

The fight went viral. Hey, he threw the first punch, and I’m from Philly .

In Philly, even if the first guy starts the fight, you finish it.

Well, I finished it. And her husband, Dan, ended up with a broken nose.

Dan isn’t pressing charges, but I’m still in deep shit—the studio doesn’t like it when actors get into physical fights that go viral on their sound stages. I’m supposed to take all the necessary precautions so that all this crap blows over.

So, here I am. Hiding away in Seaside, Oregon until we resume filming for the next season in a couple of months.

I stop right by the side door of my beach house rental, the rawness in my bones preventing me from feeling excitement that my assistant found a house on a hill overlooking the ocean. The Oregon coast, with picturesque cliffs that meet the Pacific Ocean, is all I see directly in front of me.

Years ago, I would’ve been in awe right about now being here in Seaside with all these views. Back in the before times—before the show, before all the fame and the parties, and before all the world was suddenly watching my every move with great interest. With a view like this, my mouth would’ve been open in shock, hardly able to believe this was my life or that I’d be temporarily living here in this expansive home with the incredible views for the next few months.

Now, I don’t feel awe.

I feel absolutely nothing.

“I know you keep telling me you don’t need to hear this,” Frank says, “but use this as an opportunity to clear your head. Gain some new perspectives and all that shit. You hear me, kid?”

“I hear you,” I groan. No, more like a manly whine.

Hell, maybe I should try harder to hear what he’s saying. Just, the last month has been such a whirlwind of emotions that there’s a disconnect between words and my ability to process them. I’m kinda fucked, because the tabloids are painting me out to be a villain, a home wrecker. With the shit show surrounding my name looming over my head like a big, dark cloud, it’s been damn impossible to see the forest from the trees.

Which I guess is exactly why Frank and my entire team wanted me to get away to some beach location where celebrities don’t frequent as often.

Only, I personally think this is a huge waste of time.

When I get back to LA in August to start shooting again, the scandal will still be there.

And so will Jasmine—the woman I’ve loved for the better part of ten years.

Contrary to optimistic belief, people don’t forget.

My absence will make them talk about it more.

“Keep in touch,” Frank says. “And hey, try not to read the tabloids or watch the news, huh?”

I tap my foot against the stone, lips pressed together.

“Yeah,” is all I can mutter before clicking off the line.