Chapter 32 Jason
Chapter 32
Cue the orchestra. Roll the credits.
Jason
MY RED NIKES pad across the gold and maroon hotel carpet. I’ve walked this path many times, for many promo tours. Only the overly polite assistants change.
“Jason Connor? This way. You’ll be here. Can I get you some water, sir? Ice?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
Breathing in the fusty smell of conference room air-conditioning, I settle into the chair with my name on it. When no one is looking, I wiggle the flask out of my back jeans pocket and take a swig of whiskey. It goes down hard and hot. I take another. If anyone sees, they don’t let on.
Ten feet to my right, Margarita sits with hands clasped on the table. The baby is big now, and Margarita’s dress celebrates every curve. The last ultrasound said everything was good. I pasted on a smile as we watched the black-and-white smudges moving around on the screen. It’s a girl this time. I know I should be happy, although “happy” is a bit ambitious for me lately. It would be nice to feel anything, honestly.
Emmy walks in wearing skinny jeans and a macramé vest, and my numb brain summons an emotion: anger. A staff member leads her to a chair ten feet away on the other side of me. Our eyes meet, and I look away.
There’s another emotion—hurt. Forget I said anything about wanting to feel. Feelings suck.
The flask is calling to me. Drink me. I’m here for you, bud. You and me. I’ll get you through it. I take another swallow and grimace as a tall, grinning suit makes his way over to the chair across from me.
“Storm Morowitz.” He holds out his hand. “Celebrity Roundup.”
“Nice to meet you.” I tuck the flask back in my pocket. “Shoot.”
He launches into the usual round of questions about the movie. Margarita and Emmy are also both being interviewed by people I vaguely recognize. I could probably recall their names and publications if I tried hard enough. If I cared hard enough.
“What kinds of fans do you see the film appealing to?” Storm asks.
“Oh, you know.” I rub my temples. “Unhappy, middle-aged women and hormonal teenage girls. The usual.”
He emits a stuttering laugh. “What was your favorite part of the filming?”
“When we could finally turn off the Duran Duran music.”
“Did you do your own stunts?”
“You mean the thrilling action scene where I ate sushi with wasabi? Yes.”
Time’s up, and Storm Whatever His Name Was thanks me and takes his voice recorder away with him. I use the short break to steal another glance at Emmy. She looks as miserable as I feel, although maybe it’s just her guilt showing.
She’s texted me at least twenty times between the fundraiser and now, telling me she wasn’t the one who posted those photos, but I don’t know who else it could’ve been. How convenient that the photos were anonymous, and then the very next week, her book hit number one on the bestseller list.
Maybe I could’ve been convinced to give her the benefit of the doubt, except in all my downtime after getting fired and finding out I’m having another kid I can disappoint, I finished reading her book. That was a real punch in the nards.
Amanda warned me about Emmy, but I didn’t believe her. Miles tried to, too. I was supposed to be her celebrity crush! She was supposed to actually like me, at least a little bit.
I lengthen my legs under the table and stretch way back in my chair so there’s no chance of looking her way. Why does everything hurt? When I lift my head again, Harper Rose is there. I’m actually relieved, and that’s the second time today my brain has surprised the hell out of me.
“Hello, Harper,” I say semi-cheerfully.
“Hello, Jason.” Her smile is even bigger and faker than usual under her coiffed blond updo. “Excited to be a new dad soon?”
Big eyes and lots of teeth are how I choose to answer that.
“Any luck finding a gig as good as Lost Star ?”
She would go there. Harper Rose has a heart the size of a garbanzo bean inside a body of indeterminate age—she’s either a vampire or she’s hired the best plastic surgeon in California. There’s no point sugarcoating things, so I tell her the truth. “Not yet.” I don’t mention Cameron dumped me, too, so I’m not only out of a job but also out of an agent.
“I’m sure it’ll happen.” She says it in the same way grocery store baggers say, Have a nice day . “Are you and Emmy on speaking terms yet?”
No need to lie about that, either. “Nope.”
“And Margarita? She’s gotten quite serious with one of her producers, at least that’s what I’ve heard.”
I trail my finger down the faux wood grain on the table. “That’s what I heard, too.” This is supposed to be a premiere interview. We’re supposed to be talking about the movie, but leave it to Harper to pour salt in my wounds instead.
“What about you? Anyone giving you comfort and solace lately?” The slow, sleepy way she asks the question makes me look up. She’s got that smile on, the one that tells me yup, that’s exactly what she meant.
“No comfort, Harper,” I admit. “No solace.”
“That’s too bad.” She reaches across the table and puts her hand on mine. I catch a glimpse of Emmy out of the corner of my eye. She’s watching us.
I know it’s a sucky thing to do, but vengeance is a dish best served with a side of suck. I flip my hand over so Harper’s fingers can find my open palm. Then I switch on the smolder to level two of ten. Barely there, but there . Subtle but powerful. Harper’s smile widens.
“Did you have another question?” I purr.
“What are you doing tonight?”
“Tower Bar,” I say.
“Maybe I’ll see you there.”
I give her the finger gun. It wasn’t much of an interview, and I won’t be seeing her at the Tower Bar. As she walks away, hips swinging in her pink suit skirt, I steal another glance at Emmy. She’s staring straight ahead at the empty chair, pretending she didn’t see any of that, but I know she did. I get more feelings, kind of tangled-up ones. Satisfaction mixed with guilt. Vindication wrapped around despair. Desire all tied up with…
I pull out the flask again and check my phone. How many more hours of this?
There’s a notification for a missed call from a Lost Star network flunky harassing me about a promo I’m still contracted to do for a show they fired me from. I made the mistake of answering their initial calls a month ago, thinking maybe it was good news. Nope, just a waste of everybody’s time. I delete the voicemail without listening to it.
Screw them. I’m not Hadron anymore. Zachary Tay is. Write the promo shit into his contract.
When the interviews are done, I hurry out before Emmy can catch me. Turns out I didn’t need to. When I glance back, she’s not chasing me. She’s talking to a purple-haired, artsy-looking woman in a beret—must be her friend Josie—and Peyton. I should go and meet them, especially Peyton. It’s the right thing to do, but Jason Connor isn’t a guy who does the right thing, is he?
Instead, I duck my head and continue the long, fast walk to my car. When I press the ignition button on the Alfa, Duran Duran blares on the stereo. I quickly switch it to Smash Mouth. My eye jumps to the photo I stuffed face down into a crack in the dash. I tug it free and flip it over. It’s the pic Emmy mailed to me of us in the kitchen. God, who is that guy and why is he such a sucker?
Did she plan to use me all along? If so, she should be acting, not writing. Maybe it was too good an opportunity to pass up, a moment of weakness at my expense. With my history, I’m probably not even allowed to be mad about that.
I open the glove box, toss the photo in, and slam it shut. Then I take a deep breath and hold on to the steering wheel. Only two more days of interviews and then a game show with Emmy, hosted by Terica. The premiere is next week. Then it’ll all be over. The baby will come, then Christmas. I’ll start auditioning for work in the New Year. Emmy Ellison and all my memories of her can fade out. Cue the orchestra. Roll the credits.
Yup, that’s what I want. That’s what I need. That’s what I deserve.
I shift into first and head for the liquor store.