Chapter 3
“I’m not your child,” I say. “I’m your niece.”
Brock glances to the side, looking for the busboy who was supposed to bring the napkin. “Service these days is ridiculously bad.”
“Nobody cares where your niece goes to school,” I say, trying to focus him back on our conversation.
“I’m your guardian,” he says, looking back at me. “Acting as your surrogate parent, so yes, it’s unacceptable to send you to public school. Even if didn’t affect my reputation, public school would destroy you. The kids there would bully you for having money and a famous father.”
“My dad isn’t famous. He’s been on a few TV shows, and he was a side character.”
“Regardless, the students would do whatever it took to drive you out of there.”
“I’m not afraid of them. I’m a New Yorker.”
“This isn’t up for debate. You’re going to Twisted Pine Academy. End of discussion.”
“Twisted Pine? That’s the name? What the hell? Are we going to learn spells and incantations?”
He chuckles. “Funny I’ve never thought of it that way.
‘Twisted Pine’ refers to the trees in the area.
Years ago, pine trees covered much of southern California.
In the location where they built the school, one of the pine trees had a twisted trunk.
The tree has since died but there’s a photo of it in the school lobby. ”
“They named the school after a tree? That’s kinda lame.”
“The school’s founder loved trees. He traveled the world taking pictures of different types. When he bought the land to build the school and saw the twisted pine, he took it as a sign that should be the name.”
“How do you know all this?”
“They tell the story every year in parent orientation. I’ve heard it enough times to remember every detail. I spared you the long version.”
A man appears with our food.
“Grilled salmon,” he says, placing it in front of Brock. “And kale salad.” He sets a bowl of green leaves in front of me. “Enjoy.”
The busboy races over. “Your napkin.” He hands it to Brock, then hurries off.
As I dig into my bowl of leaves, Brock texts someone on his phone. He’s spent almost the entire time we’ve been here either texting or checking messages. It’s like I’m not even here.
Taking a bite of the salad, I nearly choke. One of the leaves hit the back of my throat, and I had to cough it out.
“You okay?” Brock asks, not looking up from his phone.
“I can’t eat this salad,” I say, setting my fork down.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s like eating grass. I’m usually not picky but I’ve never tasted anything like this. Do people really think this is good?”
“Morgan lives on kale. Puts it in everything.”
“Who’s Morgan?”
He looks up. “My girlfriend. I mentioned her on the phone.”
“You did?”
“I told you about her daughter, Livia. I thought you two might be friends.”
“I don’t remember any of this. Are you sure you told me?”
“It was soon after your mother passed. I’m not surprised you don’t remember. Anyway, I was hoping we’d all go to dinner some night so you could meet them.”
“How old is her daughter?”
“She’s fourteen but mature for her age.”
“No offense but I don’t need help getting friends. And fourteen’s too young. I’d feel like I’m her babysitter.”
“Then maybe try being like a sister to her. She could use some guidance.”
“A sister?” I laugh. “Are you marrying her mom?”
“Maybe,” he casually says while cutting into his salmon.
“Haven’t you been married three times already?”
“Two. I was engaged to Anna, but we broke it off before the ceremony.”
“But you only have two kids, right? There aren’t others you didn’t tell me about?”
He clears his throat. “The boys are it. They’re enough. They can be quite a handful.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know how boys are . . . always causing trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Fights at school. Drinking. The typical things kids do at that age.” He smiles at me. “Devon assures me I won’t have the same issues with you.”
“He doesn’t know me that well,” I say, meeting Brock’s eyes across the table.
“You’re saying you’ve been in trouble?”
“I’m saying I’m not as innocent as I look.”
He must not believe me because he doesn’t react. He goes back to eating his meal and checking his phone.
I’m not a troublemaker, but I feel like I want to be.
When I lived with my mom, I followed the rules because I didn’t want to upset her or make her life harder.
Raising a kid on your own isn’t easy, so I tried to help her by staying out of trouble.
But with Brock? I don’t care. I don’t owe him anything.
He’s taking me in, but I know he doesn’t want to. He’s only doing it to boost his image.
Hollywood star takes in orphaned niece. That was the headline I saw on a website last week. They made Brock sound like a saint. And what’s with the orphan title? I’m not an orphan. I have a dad.
“Fuck,” Brock mutters, swiping through his phone.
“What?”
“The audition I had on Friday was canceled. They already cast the role.” He sets his phone down hard on the table. “That role should’ve been mine, dammit.”
He stabs his fork in the salmon like he’s trying to kill it. Why is he so angry? So he didn’t get an audition? Big deal. I just lost my mom, and he doesn’t even seem to care.
My mom used to say actors were self-absorbed. That everything was all about them. I’m starting to see what she means. Brock is completely consumed with himself. Maybe that’s good. If he ignores me, I can do what I want.
“You never said how you started acting,” I say. “Did you do Broadway?”
“No. Never.” He shudders. “The stage was for my brother. I had no desire to do that.”
“Then how’d you get started?” I ask, picking at my salad to see if there’s anything in there I could eat.
“Miranda. The boys’ mother. Her father was head of the studio.”
“So you hooked up with her to get a job.” I nod. “Real romantic.”
“It wasn’t like that. When I met her, I didn’t know about her father. I was interning at the studio and saw her in the cafeteria. I asked her out and we started dating.”
“And then her dad gave you a part?”
“Yes, but it had nothing to do with my relationship with Miranda.”
“Didn’t you say this town is all about connections?”
“I wasn’t referring to my relationship with Miranda.”
I shrug. “I’m just saying, seems pretty convenient you just happen to ask out the daughter of the boss at the same time you’re desperate to break into the business.”
He glares at me. I don’t know why he’s angry. He just got done saying people here will do anything and everything to make it as an actor.
“I need to get going.” He gets out his wallet. “Harley will take you home.”
Brock only had a few bites of his salmon, and I gave up on my salad after nearly choking on it. What a waste of a lunch. We should’ve just skipped it.
“Here.” Brock tosses a fifty at me. “Stop and get something to eat on the way to the house. Tell Harley what you want. He’ll know where to go.”
“Thanks.” I stuff the fifty in my jeans.
Brock stands up. “Sorry I can’t stay but I’m late for my meeting.” He motions to the waitress. “Miss?”
She hurries over to him. “Yes, Mr. Halliway.”
“I need to leave.” He hands her a hundred. “This should cover the bill. Whatever’s left is yours.”
“Thank you!” she gushes. “Before you leave, could I just—”
“Sorry, but no.” He nods at me. “Goodbye, Rumor.”
As he leaves, I get out my phone and see a message from Axl.
Miss you.
I smile and text back.
Miss you too.
Can you talk?
Not now. I’ll call when I’m at the house. Love you.
“Would you like to take that to go?” the waitress asks, pointing to my salad.
“No thanks,” I tell her as I get up from the table.
Leaving the restaurant, I see a woman who was on the soap opera my mom used to watch. Walking behind her is a guy I recognize from a cell phone commercial.
A black sedan pulls up beside me, and Harley jumps out. He comes around to open my door.
“Your carriage awaits,” he says with a smile.
“Thanks.” I get in the car and check my phone. Axl always says he loves me back, but he didn’t this time. Maybe his phone died.
“How was lunch?” Harley asks as he drives down the street.
“Brock was on his phone the whole time and my lunch was a bowl of leaves that tasted like dirt.”
He laughs. “Welcome to Hollywood.”
“Do the people here really eat like that?”
“Not everyone, but a lot of people do. Seems like everyone’s on some kind of diet. I tried paleo for a while, but it didn’t work for me.”
“So where do I go for real food?”
“Tell me what’d you like and I’ll find it.”
“Cheeseburger and fries. I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since last night.”
“Cheeseburger and fries. Got it.” He pulls into a parking lot, goes through the drive-thru, and orders.
“Here.” I reach up to the front and hand him the fifty.
“Keep it.” He pulls forward. “Consider it a welcome to California gift.”
He hands me the sack of food, and I eat my burger as he drives.
“What do you think?” he asks.
I hold up the empty sack. “Already gone.”
“So you liked it.” He winks at me in the mirror. “We have some good taco places here too. Ask the boys. They’ll tell you where to go.”
“What boys?”
“Brock’s kids. Your cousins.”
“You know them?”
“They come by the studio now and then.”
“What are they like?”
“Typical boys. Loud. Like sports. Girls.”
“Do they have girlfriends?”
“They did last time I saw them. I’m sure they have new ones now. They’re good-looking boys. They have no problems getting girls.”
He turns onto the freeway.
“Are we almost there?”
“We have about two hours to go, or three if traffic is bad.”
“Two hours? I thought Brock lived in LA.”
“He has a condo here for when he needs to be at the studio, but his main home is in La Jolla. That’s where the family lives.
It’s a beautiful home on a cliff overlooking the ocean.
The beach is narrow and rocky and the water’s cold so it’s not good for swimming, but the house has a large pool. Do you like to swim?”
I don’t answer, too angry at Brock for not telling me where I’d be living. The only bright side of coming here was knowing I’d be in a huge city with diverse people and lots to do, like New York.
I lean forward toward Harley. “Where is this place?”
“La Jolla? It’s south of here. Just north of San Diego. It’s a very exclusive town. Very expensive.”
“Is it small?”
“It is, but it’s only a short drive to San Diego.”
“I thought I’d be living in LA, not some small town.”
“Brock thought it’d be a better place to raise the boys. They could get into too much trouble in LA.”
I sit back in my seat. “This really pisses me off.”
“What was that?” Harley glances back at me in the mirror.
“Nothing,” I mutter, getting out my phone. I text Axl again. He lied.
He immediately texts back.
Who lied?
Brock. His house isn’t in LA. It’s in some small town two hours away.
WTF?
I know, right? Can’t believe he didn’t tell me!
Want to talk?
When I get there. Call you later.
“It won’t be so bad,” Harley says. “La Jolla’s a nice place to live, especially if you like the outdoors.”
“I hate the outdoors.”
He laughs. “City girl?”
“Manhattan. I lived in a high-rise apartment. The only time I went outdoors was to get to the subway.”
“This will be quite a change, but I think you’ll like it.”
I doubt it. I just got here and already hate it.
Two and a half hours later, we finally arrive at the house. I thought it’d be gated off and secluded, but instead it’s in a neighborhood on a street lined with other houses.
Harley pulls in and parks in front of a large house that looks more like an office building.
It’s two stories with a plain flat roof.
The sides are covered in white stucco, and the windows don’t have any kind of trim.
It’s one of those modern-looking houses that I’m sure cost a fortune, but it’s not my style.
Actually, I’ve never really thought about what type of house I’d want, but I know it wouldn’t be one like this.
“The front isn’t much to look at,” Harley says, “but the back is spectacular. Floor-to-ceiling windows looking out at the ocean.” He opens his door. “I’ll get your things.”
All I have is my backpack. Everything else Brock had shipped here.
Harley and I stand at the door. He reaches into his pocket and hands me a key. “Forgot to give this to you earlier.” He nods at the door. “Go ahead.”
“Shouldn’t we ring the bell? Or at least knock first?”
He smiles. “This is your home now. You don’t need to knock.”
I unlock the door and go inside. I’m surrounded by tall, white walls, the only color coming from a few very large paintings like the kind I used to see at MOMA back home. I like the paintings. At least Brock has decent taste in art.
“I need to be heading back,” Harley says. He holds his hand out. “Nice meeting you.”
“You too,” I say, shaking his hand.
He hands me a card. “If you ever need a ride, give me a call.”
“Won’t do me much good living out here in the wilderness.”
He laughs. “The car service has an office in San Diego. I can set you up with a driver.”
“Thanks.” I shove his card in my pocket.
“Good luck,” he says as he leaves.
Good luck? Is he implying I’ll need luck to survive here?
Stepping farther into the house, I see a hallway to my right that leads to some bedrooms, and to the left is a staircase and another hallway that looks like it goes to the kitchen. Directly in front of me is the living room. My jaw drops when I see the view.
“Holy shit,” I mutter, slowly walking to the wall of windows that line the back of the house. Just beyond it is the ocean. Foamy white waves and deep blue water. I look down and see a large patio with a plexiglass wall surrounding it, probably so you don’t fall down the cliff we seem to be on.
Going over to the glass door that leads to the back, I walk outside and am hit by the wind off the ocean. It feels wet, like a mist covering my face.
I walk to the edge of the patio. Looking down over the plexiglass railing, I see a wall of sharp, jagged rocks that extends along the entire beach.
Out of nowhere, I feel a hand yanking me back and a deep voice yelling, “Who the fuck are you?”