Chapter Sixteen
Chapter
Sixteen
Dylan was so mad, she was seeing stars.
Red stars.
Red stars exploding, shrapnel flying, landing on every single one of those miscreants standing outside of Ramona’s door.
Breathe .
She needed to breathe.
If she didn’t breathe, she’d never find her way out of the woods she was currently traipsing through, heading in the vague direction of Birch Street and Ramona’s house. She wasn’t sure the exact number, but she wasn’t planning on going in through the front door either.
She spilled out onto Sterling, then checked her Maps app and kept heading east. She had to cut through some backyards, but this was preferable to the main road. At least it was until a very large, very unleashed dog in a very unfenced backyard spotted her, its barks like a security alarm.
“Hey, good dog,” she said, slowing her quick steps, but the beast kept barking. She loved dogs, but small ones. Yippy ones, as Laurel called them, and this dog was huge and booming, with big sharp teeth and drool dripping down onto the grass.
“It’s okay,” she said soothingly. “I’m just cutting through. Just a little short—”
The dog lunged then, snapping its jaw at her flowy T-shirt and getting a piece of the hem. It yanked, jerking her forward, and Dylan heard her shirt rip. She lunged back, and her shirt tore even more, but at this point, she just wanted to survive this little encounter with Cujo. She let the dog have the chunk of cotton and took off running, angling around hydrangeas just starting to bloom and thorny rosebushes. She didn’t slow down until she spilled onto Birch, her lungs desperate for air.
She was not a runner.
She fucking hated exercise, actually, but speed walked on a treadmill in her house while reading scripts or watching mindless TV. That bit of cardio, however, did not prepare her for escaping territorial canines in New Hampshire. She rested her palms on her knees, catching her breath. Down the street, she spotted a crowd outside a little brick bungalow, her anger flaring again. She swung right, ducking into more backyards until she landed on Ramona’s back porch, which was cute and filled with potted plants and flowers.
She knocked on the door, and Ramona flung it open before she’d even let down her arm.
“My god, what happened to you?” Ramona asked.
Dylan frowned, but then looked down at herself—shirt torn, cuffed jeans dusted with dirt, white sneakers filthy.
“I ran here,” she said, still huffing for breath. “And escaped death by dog.”
“And trees,” Ramona said, plucking a twig out of her hair.
Dylan laughed, but then went sober when she remembered why she was here. “I’m so sorry.”
Ramona sighed, and she stood aside to let Dylan in the house. “It’s not your fault.”
“It actually is,” Dylan said, stepping into a cozy kitchen with dark green cabinets and butcher-block counters. “Killin’ Dylan strikes again.”
Ramona frowned, then went to a coffeepot by the sink and poured some of the dark liquid into a mint-green cup. She handed it to Dylan, then sat down with her own cup at the table. “Where does that name come from anyway?”
Dylan sank into the chair. All of her muscles hurt—Jesus, that speed walking had really fucked her over in terms of aerobic endurance.
“It’s stupid,” she said, folding her hands around the cup. “And from when I was an idiot in my early twenties and had no clue how to control my temper.”
Ramona lifted a brow.
Dylan laughed. “Okay, so, sometimes, I still don’t know how to control it.” She winced. “Heard about Jocelyn’s birthday party, did you?”
Ramona sucked her teeth. “Everyone heard about that, Dylan.”
“Right, right,” Dylan said, pressing her fingers to her eyes. “Well, losing one’s shit on the set of Spellbound when your rock star father shows up to support you ”—here she hooked finger quotes into the air—“and then proceeds to pretty much take over the entire day with his narcissism, resulting in his daughter blowing up and knocking over a prop table full of lit candles for a spell scene, will indeed get you a nickname like Killin’ Dylan.”
Now it was Ramona’s turn to wince. “Well…at least I’d never heard that story before.”
Dylan laughed, but it was bitter. “You’re in the minority, trust me.”
“Even I’ve heard that story,” Olive said, coming into the kitchen, “and I was, like, ten when it happened.”
“Oh, very nice,” Dylan said, but she smiled at the girl.
“I’ve heard it too,” Mr. Riley said, meandering into the room as well with his phone in his hand, clad in khakis and a short-sleeved plaid shirt. He looked like such a dad , Dylan felt a flutter of longing underneath her ribs.
“Mr. Riley,” she said. “I’m really sorry about all of this.”
He waved a hand, then tapped at his phone. “They’re trespassing, and I’ve just found the state ordinance to reference if anyone gives me trouble, so if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go kick these charlatans off my lawn.”
“You need to be riding a white horse when you do that,” Ramona said. He winked at her, then came over and kissed her on the top of her head. Dylan melted a little, literally felt her insides go soft and warm. Luckily, her phone buzzed right then, a good distraction from her thickening throat.
But the name flashing across the screen did nothing to calm her down. In fact, it did the exact opposite.
Rayna .
“It’s my publicist,” she said. She’d already tried calling Laurel this morning, but her manager was on a plane on her way here, and her agent, Adriana, most definitely left this kind of drama to Laurel and Rayna. Rayna, who was a pit bull and had saved Dylan from many a scandal, but who was also sort of, maybe, definitely terrifying. Dylan clicked the red button, sending the call to voicemail, but it just rang again a second later. Dylan slapped the red button again.
As dread pooled in her stomach, the back door flew open, revealing April breathing hard and holding up her phone.
“Answer my texts, Llama Face.”
“Oh, god, sorry,” Ramona said, taking out her phone and tapping. “I’d turned off alerts.”
“Turned off alerts?” April said, pressing her hand dramatically to her chest. “For me ?”
They talked back and forth, an amusing verbal tennis match, but Dylan’s phone rang a third time, and she knew she couldn’t put Rayna off any longer.
“Rayna, hey,” she said, standing up from the table and wandering into the living room.
“Dylan, there are only a few things I really hate,” Rayna said, her sexy-raspy voice deadly quiet. “Number one, roaches. They’re nearly impossible to kill and carry diseases and, when you least expect it, they fly. Flying roaches , Dylan.”
“Yeah, that’s—”
“Number two, multiple forks at dinner. Who has the fucking time?”
Dylan stayed quiet this time.
“Number three, waking up to my client’s name plastered all over the gossip sites when that client gave me no advance warning of said plastering.”
“I’m sorry, Rayna,” Dylan said. “I didn’t think it would—”
“Were there cameras present, flashing in your face?”
Dylan sighed. “Yes.”
“Then you knew it would.” Rayna cleared her throat, and Dylan could hear the clacking of a keyboard, which meant Dylan was on speakerphone, most likely getting berated in front of at least two assistants and paying Rayna an exorbitant hourly fee for the experience.
“However,” Rayna said— click, click, click —“this particular fuckup benefits you, so we’ll call it square. Though next time you see a camera within fifty feet of you, I better hear about it. I don’t care if the wielder is a four-year-old in pigtails playing with Mommy’s phone.”
“Wait, wait—benefits me?” Dylan asked.
“That’s what I said.”
“How does it—”
“Date her.”
Dylan froze. “What?”
“Date. Her.” Rayna was still clicking and clacking away.
“Her…”
Rayna released a belabored sigh. “The woman whose hand you were holding not twenty-four hours ago?”
“I wasn’t—”
“I don’t care. Gia’s been on the phone with Laurel every day since filming started, and when Laurel is upset, I hear about it, and I don’t like hearing about it, so—”
“Hang on, what?” Dylan said.
“Latching yourself publicly to an actual small-town girl can only help you at this point, particularly with the news of Jocelyn and Ruby’s engagement breaking this week. I’ve already gotten dozens of phone calls for comment.”
“Wait, what ?”
Dylan felt dizzy, too many things flying at her at once. Jocelyn was engaged ? Gia was calling Laurel? And… date her? Ramona ?
She shook her head, wandered over to the fireplace mantel, her eyes scanning pictures of Ramona and Olive at various ages. There was one of Ramona holding a baby Olive on the couch…a very familiar-looking Ramona, all gangly and awkward, a half smile on her face, her eyes sad, dark circles underneath.
She was wearing a cherry-print T-shirt.
Dylan’s breath caught, her heart climbing her throat. She turned to see now Ramona, still sitting at the table and laughing with April, who was talking a mile a minute, though Dylan couldn’t make out about what.
Ramona’s eyes met hers.
Dylan’s stomach plunged to her feet, and she moved away from the mantel and the photograph, trying to focus on what the hell her publicist was saying.
“Okay, Rayna, just slow down a sec,” she said, then sat on the edge of the squashy plaid couch, rested her head in one hand. “Why is Gia calling Laurel?”
There was silence for a beat, which was never a good sign with Rayna. There wasn’t much she wouldn’t come right out and say.
“You can ask Laurel about that,” she finally said. “I’m in charge of image, not talent.”
“Talent?” Dylan said, her chest tightening. “But the last scene we shot went really well, and—”
“Again, image,” Rayna said. “So go ahead and hold what’s-her-name’s hand. Kiss her on the sidewalk. Invite her to the set so she can moon over your…talent.”
Dylan’s heart was going to break out of her chest. It really and truly was. Rayna definitely paused dramatically before saying the word talent there, and what the fuck was going on here?
“You want me to fake date Ramona?” Dylan asked.
“Hey, talented and smart,” Rayna said. “Do it.”
And then she ended the call, leaving Dylan alone, gaping in the Rileys’ living room, trying to process what the hell just happened. Before she could figure anything out, her phone buzzed again.
Laurel: Just landed in Manchester. Meet you at the diner
Dylan’s fingers hovered over her screen, but everything she could think to ask was just an amalgam of what the actual fuck , so she held off, hoping the walk to the diner from here would clear her head a bit.
If they could even get out the door without cameras trailing them the entire way.
Date her .
She dropped her phone in her lap, rubbed at her temples. She couldn’t think about this right now. She needed Laurel, and she needed to get Ramona to work without the whole of Hollywood scum mauling her outside her own house.
So that was what she was going to fucking do.
The way back to Lake Street via the backyards was a very different experience with three locals. Granted, Mr. Riley had succeeded in clearing off his lawn, but several photographers were still loitering on the public road just beyond their property line, and Dylan didn’t want to take the chance.
She wanted exactly zero pictures of her and Ramona until she talked to Laurel and cleared her head.
Date her.
And on top of that little gem, Gia’s daily calls to Laurel and the news of Jocelyn and Ruby’s engagement cycled through her thoughts on a loop. The cool morning air helped, but what she really needed was a therapy session and an entire day burrowed under her covers.
At least their journey was quiet, peaceful even, and void of any sprinting through backyards. Dylan took several deep breaths and focused on the leaf-packed trees, the green canopy they created over the earth, the gentle shush-shush of their feet through the grass. No one spoke much, and Dylan was grateful for that, though April and Ramona whispered here and there. She was sure April had a thousand questions about the photos and their Dickie’s outing, but she wasn’t directing those inquiries toward Dylan right now.
Small favors.
“Hey, puppy dog,” Olive crooned as they got to the yard that housed Cujo.
“Oh, hey, be careful,” Dylan said, “that dog is—”
But Olive rubbed the dog’s head, and it leaned into her hands, tongue panting and tail wagging happily.
Dylan sighed. Fucking figured.
“Nugget’s a good dog, aren’t you,” Olive said, rubbing its ears and pressing her face close.
“Nugget?” Dylan said, lifting her damaged hem. “More like Demon.”
“This is the dog that tore your shirt?” Ramona said, also petting the beast, who, if physically capable, would be purring right now from all the love and attention.
“Nugget would never ,” April said, joining in this little adoration party and patting the dog’s butt.
“I hate you all,” Dylan said, and kept walking, the others snickering and following her.
“You don’t like dogs?” Ramona said, catching up with her.
“No, I like dogs just fine,” Dylan said. She felt silly and stressed and wanted a cup of coffee the size of her head right now.
“Do you have any pets?” Ramona asked.
Dylan laughed, a bitter sound. “I’m not exactly reliable with caretaking. I kill every plant I’ve ever had. I really wanted a long-haired Chihuahua when I was a kid, but my parents could barely keep me alive, so…”
She trailed off, adding embarrassed to her list of emotions for sharing too much.
Next to her, Ramona was quiet for a bit, April and Olive whispering behind them. The morning sun was golden and sparkling through the trees, the air rain-washed from a summer storm the night before. The day was lovely and worked to calm Dylan down a little.
“Long-haired Chihuahuas are cute,” Ramona finally said.
“You think so?” Dylan asked. “Anyone I’ve ever told that to immediately winces and starts talking about hyperactivity and how they hate little yippy dogs or some other reason why I shouldn’t like them.”
“You should get to like whatever you like,” Ramona said.
Dylan watched her—head down, eyes on the grass, her hands in the pockets of her light-wash jeans. Her hair was pulled halfway back with a clip that had mushrooms all over it, and the sun sparkled on the deep brown, igniting a few red tresses.
Date her .
Dylan shook her head. Goddamn Rayna.
She couldn’t.
Ramona wouldn’t.
Except as she glanced at Ramona again, her stomach flipped and flopped like a preteen with a first crush. Granted, she knew she had a crush on Ramona—she was cute and sweet and smart, and crushes were all well and good, but she hadn’t planned to do anything about it. And she certainly hadn’t planned to do anything about it that provided a story for the gossip sites.
Hell, no.
“What?” Ramona asked, and Dylan realized she’d protested out loud.
“Nothing, sorry,” she said, staring at the grass. Luckily, they reached Lake Street just then, and Clover Moon café was in view. Dylan picked up her pace, needing nothing more than to lock herself in a bathroom for some solitude.
As they left the cover of the trees, coming out into the open of the busy summer morning, the townsfolk and tourists…well, they noticed.
Of course Dylan was used to pulling glances wherever she went, but this was different. This was accompanied by whispers and crooned greetings toward Ramona, with knowing smiles and eyes shifting down to her fingers to see if they were tangled with Dylan’s.
And dammit, Dylan was so close to taking her hand. Just to spite everyone. Show Ramona off as exactly her type—she couldn’t believe that one post said she was slumming it —but she knew that would just lead to more pictures of the two of them together, and—
Latching yourself publicly to an actual small-town girl can only help you at this point, particularly with the news of Jocelyn and Ruby’s engagement…
She sped up even more, claiming too much coffee this morning as she left the group behind and hurried into Clover Moon. The place went comically silent when she walked in, silverware clattering to plates and gasps emitting over coffee cups, but she just smiled and hurried to the single, gender-neutral bathroom in the back.
Locked herself inside.
The farmhouse decor with its hardwood floors and rose-colored glass globes around amber lighting was lovely, but Dylan barely noticed, because she did the worst thing she could possibly do in that moment and got on her phone. Googled Jocelyn Gareth. She didn’t even need to put in Ruby’s name, as the search engine autofilled it for her. She clicked on the first article.
Jocelyn Gareth and Ruby Chopra announced their engagement this week, as though the four-carat, vintage diamond on Ruby’s hand didn’t give it away. The happy couple doesn’t have a date in mind quite yet, according to Jocelyn’s manager, but the two have plenty to keep them busy. Ruby is slated to star in a romantic period piece, while Jocelyn will be entering the recording studio to lay down her debut album. Hollywood was delighted when the actress announced her musical ambitions, and even more so when she revealed that she’d signed with Evenflow Records, a company founded by rock legend Jack Monroe. Monroe still remains active in artist selection and production. One can’t help but wonder at the connection between Jocelyn’s latest creative endeavor and her fiery ex, Jack’s daughter, Dylan Monroe. Regardless, Hollywood rejoices at these particular wedding bells, as the world is always in desperate need of another happy queer couple. Congratulations, Jocelyn and Ruby!
Dylan tossed her phone onto the floor, half hoping the damn screen would crack. She clenched her fists, but there was no fighting that hollowed-out feeling in the pit of her stomach, the very same one she experienced when she’d found out, hours before Jocelyn’s birthday party at the Mondrian’s rooftop pool, that her girlfriend of eleven months had been talking to her father behind her back, using her to get in his good graces, then sending him her demo, all without Dylan’s knowledge.
She didn’t give two shits about Jocelyn and Ruby’s impending nuptials. She did, however, give a shit about being reminded of Jocelyn’s betrayal and backstabbing. That was definitely not in her morning plans, but it wasn’t as though Hollywood would let her forget it.
A knock sounded on the door.
“Occupied!” Dylan said, and not kindly.
“It’s me.”
Dylan scrambled to unlock the door, then all but yanked her manager into the tiny space.
“You are never allowed to leave me again,” Dylan said.
Laurel laughed, tucked her hands in the pockets of her wide-legged black pants. She eyed Dylan’s phone on the floor. “Clearly you can’t be trusted.”
“I told you I couldn’t!” Dylan’s screech echoed off the walls.
“Okay,” Laurel said, presenting her hands, “you’re going to the bad place. Sit down and take a breath.”
Then she all but shoved Dylan onto the closed toilet lid, but Dylan didn’t mind one bit. She was going to the bad place, one where she couldn’t breathe and couldn’t think and she was naked on the home page of every single gossip site in existence.
In her mind, at least.
So she did as she was told. She took a breath. Several, in fact, as well as a few sips from the water bottle Laurel produced from her bag.
“What is going on with Gia?” Dylan asked when she felt like she could handle the answer.
Laurel frowned. “What do you mean?”
Dylan gave her a look, set the water bottle on the floor. “This makes me wonder how often you lie to me.”
“I’m your manager—lying to you is part of the gig. You don’t want to know everything, trust me.”
“Yes, I do.”
Laurel laughed, her dark coils bouncing. “No. You don’t.”
Dylan was starting to feel the need for more deep breaths. “Okay, well, Rayna spilled the beans anyway, so why is Gia calling you all the time? Our last scene was great.”
Laurel sighed, leaned against the wall. “One ten-minute scene that took three days.”
Her voice was soft, soothing, but her words were like knives nicking along Dylan’s skin. Dylan opened her mouth. Closed it. She couldn’t refute what Laurel said, but she had this now, she knew how to play Eloise…
Didn’t she?
Suddenly, she wasn’t so sure, her confidence melting like snow under a spring-warm sun. As she sat there, her cheeks reddening under Laurel’s indictment of her abilities—however gently said—Gia’s and Blair’s voices over the past several days started filtering into her brain.
I can’t believe I let them…
You get handed the role on a silver platter…
Pulling you, yes. I didn’t even want…
Dylan pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes until she saw starbursts.
“Laurel,” she said.
“Dylan.”
She paused, wondering if she could just not ask the question, but no. The words settled on her tongue, inching toward her mouth. They were going to be free no matter what.
She took one more fortifying breath. Then…
“Did the studio even want me to play Eloise?”
She asked it quietly, with her eyes still covered, a kaleidoscope of color swirling behind her vision.
Silence at first.
A silence that stretched long enough that Dylan dropped her hands and looked up at her manager, whose pretty form was spotty and multicolored as Dylan’s vision adjusted.
“Don’t lie to me,” she said. “I need to know what—”
“No.”
Dylan’s mouth snapped shut.
Well, now she knew.
“Then why…” she started but trailed off. She wasn’t sure what she wanted to know now, wasn’t sure it even mattered. She felt beat-up, a rag doll flung around by a thoughtless child. She knew she was lucky—she did know. She had a major role in a movie, and she never had to worry about money, and she shouldn’t complain, shouldn’t feel such a hollow place in her chest, but she couldn’t help it.
She’d wanted this to be hers.
This movie, this role, this new chapter in her life.
But it turned out Blair was right.
“Then why did they cast me?” she finally managed to ask.
Laurel sighed again, but when she spoke, her voice was firm, sure. “Because you needed it.”
Dylan looked up at her. “I needed it.”
“You hadn’t worked in months. You’d just broken up with Jocelyn, with the champagne in the Mondrian’s pool and that helicopter fiasco—”
“I was there.”
“You were drowning,” Laurel went on. “You needed a new image. You wanted a new image, and my job is to get it for you.”
Dylan shook her head, thoughts swirling. “How did Adriana even… As If You Didn’t Know is major motion picture. Skylark is a major studio. Millions and millions of dollars. How?”
Laurel shrugged nonchalantly. “Adriana is good at her job, and I’m not too shabby myself. And you’re a name. A big one. You think Skylark Studios would pass up turning Killin’ Dylan into America’s sweetheart? No, they wouldn’t. And Gia got over it.”
Dylan blinked. “So Adriana just…what? Pawned me off as some story?”
“I think Adriana would call it a pitch. But, sweetie,” Laurel said gently, “everything in this business is a story.”
Dylan opened her mouth to refute that, but realized she couldn’t. Not one bit. Hollywood was a tapestry of tales, dreamed and woven and made. Hardly anything was organic, everything a carefully planned move. A strategy.
Even love.
“Rayna wants me to date Ramona,” Dylan said, her hands pressed her to knees. She stared at a spot on the floor, a whorl of dark and light wood, waiting for Laurel to speak.
But Laurel said nothing. She let the words hover between them, and this too was probably a strategy.
“Say something,” Dylan said.
Laurel sighed. “You know what I’m going to say, Dylan.”
“Say something different, then.”
“I can’t do that,” Laurel said. “I do what’s best for your career. You already know Ramona. From your childhood, for god’s sake. She was your first kiss. Is this such a stretch?”
A stretch .
Everything in Hollywood felt like a stretch. The tiniest bend of reality that still seemed to send the whole world askew more times than not.
But Dylan had to admit, professionally speaking, dating Ramona probably was a good idea. With all of Dylan’s bad publicity, with the stakes of this film and her struggles with her role already, with the fact that Dylan did want a new image, she did want to broaden her scope, her reputation, her…
Her story.
Being with Ramona could only help. It would help her image, sure, but it would also help Dylan. After sitting with Ramona on the beach in that cove, talking with her, hearing about her life, Dylan had become Eloise. She’d done her job and she’d done it well. Ramona was an inspiration, a muse , if Dylan wanted to get dramatic about it.
But that was the thing—it wouldn’t be dramatic. Dating Ramona wouldn’t be wild and messy and packed with betrayal and pools full of champagne.
It would be calm.
Planned.
A story, that was it.
There was really only one problem.
She knew Ramona would never go for it.
True, she didn’t know Ramona that well, but she didn’t seem like the kind of person who would want to take part in a bona fide Hollywood shenanigan to reinvent Dylan’s image. Ramona was real , and she was about real things.
Dylan closed her eyes, trying to figure out how to work this, if it even could be worked, but then she realized something.
She liked Ramona. Ramona Riley was the first girl Dylan had ever kissed, a person she actually enjoyed being with. It wouldn’t be hard to spend more time with her. Hold her hand. Sure, she hadn’t planned on acting on her crush, as every romantic relationship she’d ever had ended in disaster, but Ramona would be different.
Because Dylan could control the ending.
She’d ask Ramona out, pose it as summer fun, that was it. They were already hanging out so Dylan could experience some normalcy, why not add some hand-holding to the mix? It wouldn’t even be a lie. Dylan was certainly attracted to Ramona, wouldn’t mind at all if they kissed a little, but that would be it. If Ramona helped smooth out some of Dylan’s admittedly rough edges…was there really any harm in that?
This was easy.
Innocent.
So, no, Dylan and Ramona weren’t such a stretch. Ramona had her own life here, and Dylan’s was in LA. This was simple. Or it could be simple if Dylan would just get out of her own head. She nodded to herself, as though she could shake the prickle of unease right out of her gut. That was just nerves. Just crush feelings. This would be fine. She’d date Ramona, they’d have fun together, and Dylan would prove all the assholes wrong with her portrayal of Eloise Tucker.
And when it was all over, it would be over.
“Okay,” she said, standing up. “I’ll do it.”
Laurel smiled, said nothing, but she didn’t have to.
Dylan turned to face the mirror, wiped away the mascara flakes under her eyes, smoothed the tangles in her hair from where her hands had knotted in the tresses.
Then she opened the door and went to find Ramona Riley.