Chapter 49
Chapter Forty-Nine
My friend was amazed when I told him I can predict the future using herbs.
‘Is it true?’ he asked.
‘Only thyme will tell,’ I replied.
—From Bash’s dad joke collection
Bash
While Arabella swam her eighty bajillion miles, Bash opted for a run. He needed to clear his head.
He cued his favorite running playlist—a techno remix of nineties music that never failed to get his blood pumping—and pulled his ballcap low.
It was largely a futile effort when it came to disguises.
By this point, his location in the small town on the outskirts of Charlottesville had been exhaustively blasted to the world… and photographed.
One of the security guys trailed him at a safe distance, also running, head always on a swivel.
Bash understood the value of the massive, private estates both his sister and parents had—if only to be outside and not worry about nosy eyes and obnoxious paps.
Too many times lately, both fans and paps had gotten too close to Arabella’s house.
It made him uncomfortable to the point Bash instructed the security firm to increase their detail.
At some point, they might have to consider moving to a more secure location.
But his queen loved her castle, and he’d gotten the distinct sense that her home meant something deep and powerful to Arabella. She’d resent being taken from it. And, why uproot her if the situation was for such a short duration?
Except, of course, he no longer wanted it to end.
He was all in. Forever.
But, his queen wasn’t, and probably never would be. Not the way he wanted. Arabella clearly desired him the way his body ached to join with hers. And the deep friendship that had emerged was irrefutable. But for Arabella, their relationship had a time stamp.
He knew there was a part of her that didn’t believe they could go the distance—because of his lifestyle and career, and her own brokenness.
Arabella was, above all things, stubborn, with an icy reserve always lingering beneath the surface as her default protective zone.
If she didn’t believe in them and their ability to overcome pretty steep hurdles, it couldn’t work out.
Bash battled the very real fear that he was looking straight at heartbreak, barreling increasingly fast down the pike.
His heart gave an unfamiliar stutter of grief, and he kicked up his speed in a largely unsuccessful effort to distract himself from the pain of that lonely eventuality.
Because, even only a few weeks in, he knew any life without Arabella to love and cherish would be lonely and empty.
He was five miles in, setting a brisk eight-minute mile pace, when his earbud announced a caller. He tapped the earphone. “What’s shaking, brother?” he puffed.
“Why are you out of breath?” He and Slash almost never bothered with pleasantries. Who needed them when you had as much history as they did.
“Running.”
“Security with you?”
“Ditched that slow-as-fuck loser.” Bash glanced over his shoulder at the agent, who likely could easily outpace him, adding with an eyeroll, “What do you think?”
“Good boy, Bashie,” Slash teased. He knew how much Bash disliked the ever-present shadows that protected his safety. That said, it was better than the alternative.
“Why are you bothering me, Slashie?” He intentionally mirrored the twist of their nicknames.
“I’m bored. Out on my fart walk and I don’t like the book I’m listening to—”
“You’re still doing those? I hope no one is around to hear the cannon fire of your ass.” Bash slowed his pace, needing more breath to devote to talking to his favorite knucklehead. Yes, things had been strained lately. But, deep down, Slash was good people.
“Yes, I’m still fart walking. I had a pasta lunch with a producer about a possible role for you after Paradise and I needed to release trapped gas. You really should try it. It makes for a happy gastrointestinal tract.”
Bash snickered, rolling his eyes.
“And as it happens, I am alone, since my best friend dumped me for freaking Nowheresville, Virginia,” Slash continued, fake whining. “When are you coming back?”
“For the Atlas Unhinged premiere,” Bash managed, hitting the middle of an unexpected hill, his lungs and legs starting to scream.
“But that’s a few weeks from now. Aren’t you…moldering there?”
Bash pictured him and Arabella laughing in the kitchen this afternoon, their little prince scurrying around, chirruping away. “Not even a little bit.”
“Hmmpf,” Slash grumbled, firmly entrenched in the belief that LA was the center of the universe, the rest of the world only trying to keep up with the glitz and glam. It was a sentiment Bash had echoed himself. Until recently.
But now? One taste of something—or someone—truly un-Hollywood, and it was like his eyes had been opened to the wonders and possibilities of life outside the self-absorbed, shallow, pretentious microcosm of the film industry.
Arabella had dragged him from the sparkling, phony dream state he’d been living in.
And he didn’t miss it one bit.
His earbuds caught an elongated thrrrp sound. “Dude, did you just rip one?”
“It’s a fart walk, asshole. What do you think?”
“Why are you calling me?”
“I thought we could catch up. I saw the photos from the shelter. Impressive work. You looked really into it.”
“I was into it, Slash. It’s an incredible place serving an important purpose for domestic abuse survivors.
” Bash sighed, both from reaching the apex of the hill without throwing up a lung and from frustration at Slash.
His best friend was a good man at heart, but life as a Hollywood agent had taken its toll on his personality.
“Your doctor chick looked good.”
Now Bash rolled his eyes hard, his blood heating in a telltale rise of his temper. “As I’ve told you too many times before, her name is Arabella. Or Dr. Remington. She’s not a chick, dickcrud.”
“I’m just saying, she’s kind of hot for an older lady.”
“She’s younger than we are, Guinn,” he huffed as he picked up his pace. “Try to have a little class.”
Slash ignored the reprimand, as well as Bash’s intentional use of his much-hated birth name. “Melody told me Poet’s been messaging her on Insta about you. She wants you back.”
“In good news for me, I don’t want her back. She’s…she’s not the type of person I want to be with.”
“And what type is that? A grouchy, middle-aged surgeon from East Nowhere?”
“Fuck. Off,” Bash seethed, halting in his tracks to catch his breath, which had been stolen more by anger than the run. “You show some respect to the woman I—”
“The woman you what, Bash? You were going to say ‘love’ weren’t you? What the hell? Are you serious, or are you a better actor than I thought?”
Damn. That stung.
“Shit. Fuck, Bash, I didn’t mean it that way,” Slash added hurriedly. “You’re a talented actor. The marquis name of your generation.”
Bash looked over his shoulder and nodded at the fit, twenty-something security agent who’d quickly closed the distance, probably worried his middle-aged client would collapse in cardiac arrest on his watch. He resumed his run, this time even faster. Just to prove the point.
“Save it, G. I know from almost a lifetime of experience that your mouth runs faster than your brain,” he puffed out haltingly, speaking and breathing a challenge at that pace.
“Arabella is my magnificent queen, and if I hear one more negative word from you, not only is our business relationship over, so is our friendship.”
Silence descended, only Bash’s increasingly labored breathing and the thud of his sneakers on the pavement filling the void.
Slash eventually spoke up, sounding chastened.
“Bash, brother, I’m truly sorry. I don’t know this Arabella from Adam.
I’ve been out of line with my comments—about Arabella, but especially what I said about your acting.
I meant them flippantly, but it came out wrong.
I believe in you, Bash, even if I think you’re torching a golden role for this part. I’ve always had your back.”
Slash sounded legitimately contrite, and Bash believed him. Slash may have proved himself a strong agent over the years, but he was a shitty actor, quickly losing his spot running lines with Bash.
“For the record, I have a meeting next week with Walter Pennyrose.” This time Slash managed not to snarl the producer’s name. “To finalize your contract.”
“I want to be deeply involved in the negotiations. No funny stuff.”
Slash grunted. “Unbelievable. He doesn’t trust me. Whatever, Bash. You do you.”
“I intend to.” Sweat was pouring down Bash’s back and he was battling exhaustion and leg fatigue from the long, hard run. “And I do trust you, Slash.” Mostly. “But this role is different. And I want to personally see it signed and sealed.”
“Don’t you need a fake wedding first?” Slash asked, surprisingly not unkindly.
“Jesus. Make sure no one’s around you.” Bash instinctively looked around, even though no one could possibly overhear his agent through the earbuds.
“No one’s around. My gas annihilated them.”
Bash burst into a breathless guffaw. Leave it to Slash to always find a humorous way to mend fences.
“Seriously, man. Let me know if you need anything. When are you planning on making it official?”
In Bash’s mind, things with Arabella already were official. But the idea of putting his ring on her finger—even if it wasn’t as real for her as for him—sent a wave of longing and excitement through him.
“I’d like to propose to her first. Everyone deserves a memorable, heartfelt proposal.
And not one for the cameras,” he added peremptorily, anticipating Slash’s next comment.
“I’ll work with Melody to release something, but when I propose to Arabella Remington, it’ll be private.
Same with our wedding, which I plan to do sometime after the premiere. ”
Slash was quiet. “She’s really special to you, isn’t she?”
Bash took a deep breath and nodded. Because, yeah. “She’s everything to me.”