Chapter 6
SIX
“ Y ou’re not even going to look at the script?”
She tried to hide it underneath her purse—fat load of good it does—and for some reason, her hesitation has acid churning in my gut.
Rather than answer, she drops onto the bed and curls on her side. “Just go away.” Her voice is muffled by the pillows, but the intention is clear. She’d rather pretend the script, and I, don’t exist.
Using her parents’ old press photos is a dick move, and I’ve thrown it out there too many times for it to keep being effective. One of these days, she’s just going to come back at me swinging, and I’ll deserve every hit. But for Christ’s sake, something has to give.
If she digs trenches in the ground with her heels, refusing to play ball, then we’re going to have a massive problem.
I’m too fucking tired to keep dragging her in the right direction.
I avoid looking at myself in the mirror and seeing myself for what I really am. But by the time I glance at the bed, she’s asleep again. My heart softens, trapped in the cave of my ribs. Instead of staying and making things worse, I grab my car keys.
Those silent tears of hers, the ones she thought I couldn’t hear last night, have got me fucked up. Rather than listening to any more of them, rather than pretending I don’t see her hiding her face in a pillow to muffle the strangled sobs, I take off.
It’s a good thing she’s taking a stress nap . I adjust my hands on the steering wheel. Neither one of us caught any winks last night. Sleep was impossible when sharing the same bed with the beautiful woman you’ve vowed not to fuck. She’s hot and delicate and smells like a wet dream. Even when she snores. Damn it, even her snores are adorable, and it took every ounce of willpower not to draw her into my arms and snuggle.
Every time she turned over, I jolted, and those snores might have been cute, but they were a constant reminder of my worry.
Hiding out at the hotel is only a temporary fix, and no real fix at all. More of a pause while we both struggle to adjust, figure out the next step, and move forward.
There’s no way I’m going to do anything else to jeopardize Empire. I’ve already done too much. Which means it’s time to reroute and get her on the same page.
I get that she’s upset.
Anyone would be in her position.
I squandered hours yesterday searching for Empire when I needed to prepare myself to grab the reins of this picture.
Any more wasted time and Stanic would be up my ass, ready to eat me from the inside. We’ve already delayed the production schedule with Parker’s death and my picking up the pieces.
Parker needed to die.
That much was obvious. A creep and a lech were among the most congenial of his defects, and putting a bullet in him had been my personal pleasure.
But what his murder means for the rest of the cast and crew and the timeline of the movie, I’m about to find out.
The coffee in the hotel lobby has a burned toast quality, but a third cup is a long time coming. The good coffee at my office is too far for me to wait for, and by the time I pull into my parking space and slam the door shut, I’m as bitter as the dregs.
Another beautiful day in Los Angeles, and the sun beats down on me, sweat already pooling along my spine. I palm my keys and head for the elevator, for the top floor.
Normally, I’d at least give a little pause to stare down at the hellhole of Hollywood, the sick and twisted streets that have captured my heart.
There’s nothing intoxicating about the glare of sunlight off glass and steel.
My bad days keep piling up, and my view overlooking the busy streets won’t do fuck all to solve them.
The elevator doors slide open, but instead of Sherry’s familiar face, a strange woman waits for me in the small sitting area.
When my footsteps sound on the floor, she stands and turns, a neutral smile lifting her lips higher and pulling the skin around her eyes tight. Somewhere in her midthirties, the stranger is impeccably dressed.
“May I help you?” The question is strained, but it sure beats me blurting out Who the fuck are you ?
She’s got the sort of smirk I always despised about Parker Heath—may he rest in fucking purgatory. With my back automatically straightening and my walls in place, my sluggish mind puts the pieces together.
The same sneak attack, the surprise waiting for me when I got to work with no forewarning, the smirk… She’s one of Stanic’s people. I’d bet my black soul.
And where the hell is Sherry? I glance around covertly before holding out a hand to shake the one the woman holds out to me.
“I made myself at home.” Her syllables are cool and calculated, her hand dry and her grip loose. And I notice she’s purposely not answering me. “I’m Celeste. I work for Stanic.”
At least she knows better than to lie to me. She must be his insurance policy.
“I’m here to offer you any assistance you may need,” Celeste adds.
Her smile is toxic and falls out of place the moment our skin touches.
I force myself to stay in place when it feels like I’ve just pissed on an electric fence.
I drop her hand faster than a man avoiding a snake bite and stalk past her toward the main doors to my office. “Thank you, but I’m not in need of assistance or babysitting. Feel free to leave.”
“Mr. Maxim believes otherwise.” Celeste trails me.
I turn at the door, blocking her entrance with my shoulders. “I already have an assistant. We’re perfectly capable of handling things on our own. Tell Stanic I appreciate his thoughtfulness.” My own grin strains the muscles of my face.
Rather than backing down, Celeste strides forward. Her skirt is cut just above her midthigh with an enticing slit on one side. Her thighs are supple and pale, a distinct contrast to Empire’s, how they used to be before the plane crash.
Any other time in my life, I would have made a pass for Celeste.
Or, judging from the molten emotion in her eyes, done some teasing and a little bit of coaxing to have her bent over my desk. Platinum blonde hair in cool tones falls down her spine toward the small of her back, but the color is all wrong.
It’s too cold.
Not like Empire’s hair.
Celeste notes my appraising look and narrows her eyes in appreciation. “Your assistant can’t do the things I do.”
“Where is she?”
“Not here. She was sent packing for the day.”
I bristle at her flippancy. “Under whose authority?”
“Stanic’s.” His name is a blast, a reprimand, and a threat all balled up into two syllables.
A small laugh accompanies the name, the meaning clear: I should know better.
I might have been out of the game, but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten the rules. They’ve always been the same. You jump when Stanic snaps his fingers, and you crawl on your belly through the shit once you’re done.
Celeste might be a pretty face with a fucking banging body, but she’s a threat. Even more so because she’s the eyes and ears Stanic has put into place to make sure I’m doing everything I’m supposed to do. I have no doubt there are cameras around my office now, hiding in places where I’ll never find them without a professional sweep.
Their feeds are probably relaying this right now.
Thinking about it makes me see red.
“If you people did anything to Sherry, I swear to god—” I begin.
Celeste interrupts with a louder round of bitter laughter, and my fingers twitch. I’ve never hit a woman. Now might be the time to start.
Gritting my teeth, I glare at her, standing up straighter.
“You people,” she repeats. “That’s a good one, Mr. Ortega. We are your people, and you are ours. You’d do well to remember it in the future. It will make any deal much easier to swallow.”
She licks her lips, adding weight and too many implications to her last word.
My glare shifts into grimace territory, a dark thread of something raging and bitter pulling the back of my heart until it constricts. “I’m never going to be one of you. I might have to tap-dance to this bullshit tune you’ve got going, but if anything happens to Sherry, it’s going to be the end of things really quick.”
“Your assistant is fine. Probably off to play some sort of card game with a group of ladies who smell of mothballs and old-lady perfume.” Celeste waves her hand.
Sherry is old, but she’s anything but cliché. And she’s got more uniqueness in the gnarled nail of her pinkie toe than Celeste does in her entire body.
“Listen. You show up here without a fucking call to warn me. It’s a power move I’ve seen a thousand times before and from people who pull it off better than you. I know the drill.” I turn my back on her and stalk toward my desk, knowing that Celeste has followed without hearing her move. Her energy bores into my back like the fucking point of a laser. “Now, if you’re not going to get the fuck out of here and piss off, you’re going to at least listen to me when I give you a goddamn order and answer my questions when I ask them.”
A bit of rage and a bit of temper, but she’s pissed me off, and civility is out the window.
When I turn back to Celeste, she stands with her shoulders back, posture impeccable. Dispassionate and calm even under the brush of my temper.
“Where’s the girl?”
The first thing out of her mouth is in direct contrast to my tirade, and my blood boils. My face goes hot, and a muscle at my temple ticks. Knee deep in goddamn devils, and there’s nothing I can do about it. Not without shooting myself right in the foot, and I need both to keep tap dancing.
I shake my head. “You deal with me, not her,” I reply.
“I need to speak to her to make sure she understands her part.” Celeste folds her hands one over the other, pressing them flat against her front. “ Wretched must be completed without a hitch, and thus far, she has not done anything to inspire, shall we say, confidence in her.”
“I’ll take care of the girl.” I lean back against my desk and grip the wooden top. “No one else. She’s none of your business.”
Celeste holds her palms up in front of her. “There’s no need for you to get angry. Although from what I understand, you’re famous for your temper. I admit, I’m looking forward to seeing it in person.”
I’m not the only masochist in the room. Celeste might look like a Nordic princess, but she got her position of power somehow. She’s the kind who likes it rough, who likes to be screamed at and degraded.
I can smell her type from a mile away.
“My temper is the least of your concerns. You think I’m full of threats about Sherry? Step one foot out of line toward Empire Stone and see what happens.”
Knuckles turning white, I stare Celeste down. This isn’t the blustery sort of anger she can brush off. This is deep, a well of never-ending thunder and acid.
“Fine,” she says like the waving of a white flag. “I agree, as long as the girl stays in line. If you fail to do your duty, then it will be up to me to rectify the situation. I’m not going anywhere, Mr. Ortega. You better get used to seeing me around.”
Even the way she says my name has me swallowing over glass. But at least she’s stopped. There isn’t a single hair out of place, but somehow we’ve managed to come to the proverbial line in the sand, and both of us are toeing it.
For the time being.
Celeste abruptly turns on her heel, and once she’s out of the room, I let out a breath. A small measure of oxygen returns, but I feel the noose tightening around my neck. A covert glance around the four corners of the room shows only the small dark spots where my own cameras are hidden.
Where have Celeste and Stanic planted the new ones? They’re here.
I straighten when Celeste returns and holds out a slim manilla folder, waiting with a single eyebrow lifted for me to take it.
Only one, I think, like two are too much trouble for her.
“Here is your new production schedule,” she says. Then, without waiting for me to open the folder, she continues with, “You have two months to finish Wretched . In that time, you’ll have to make preparations to get it out there, including scheduling press releases, interviews, cast parties, etcetera. You know the drill. You’ve been in this business a long time.”
Shock numbs my fingers, and I grip the folder harder. “I can’t do that. It’s too soon.” She’s out of her goddamn mind. “I don’t even know what scenes Parker has shot yet. Two months isn’t long enough to start cleaning up his mess, let alone get this filmed and wrapped and released.”
Two months is a ridiculously tight schedule in a perfect world. In this one? It’s insane. I’m a sweaty goddamn mess.
Celeste is unbothered and without a single crack in her perfect goddess facade. “Then you better figure it out.”
This time when she exits the room, she doesn’t come back. Leaving me alone with the deadline from hell and tension in my right arm that’s starting to feel suspiciously like a heart attack.