Chapter 3
My phone vibrates on the coffee table, and for the second time since we started rehearsing, I lean over and silence it. “Sorry, where were we?” I ask my costar, Gabrielle Martin, who’s sitting beside me on the sofa, idly picking at the corner of her script.
“Maybe you should get it.” She brushes a strand of highlighted hair behind her ear, part of the Katie Evans polish the producers insisted on for the film, though I’ve never understood the point.
In the book, Katie’s all fair skin, golden-blonde hair, and cornflower eyes—Barrett’s words, not mine.
Gabi’s Brazilian on her mom’s side, with warm bronze skin, deep-brown hair, and eyes so dark they’re almost black. Eyes that are currently fixed on me. “He’s called twice already.”
Which makes four times today, but I don’t bother telling her that.
I gesture to the damn thing. “You want to talk to him, be my guest.” I sigh. “Sorry. I didn’t sleep much last night, and I’m just not in the mood to deal with Dear Old Dad today.”
She gives me a sympathetic nod. Gabi and I grew up together, so she knows exactly what my father’s like, even if she’s never had to deal with him herself.
“It’s your line,” she says. “‘The only thing I need…’”
“‘The only thing I need from you, Ms. Evans, is to stay out of my fucking business.’”
That goes for you too, Dad.
Gabi fans herself with her script as she sinks deeper into the sofa. “‘Ms. Evans? I’m Ms. Evans now?’ Wow, Holden—shit, I mean, Tripp.” She groans, and I let out a tired laugh. “It’s too damn hot in here to concentrate. No AC? In Texas? There should be a law against that.”
I get up and move to the open window on the far side of the dance hall’s dressing room. The midday sun is beating down without a cloud in the sky to block it. And while the massive oaks offer some shade, they stand perfectly still. “Be nice if there were a breeze.”
“Be nice if there were air conditioning.”
“At least you have AC at your rental,” I say, tossing my script on a chair. “My hotel isn’t much cooler than this. Thank Christ I’m only there at night.”
She stretches the length of the sofa, crossing her bare feet in the spot I just vacated. “You’re welcome to stay there, Shaw. Plenty of room.”
“Tempting, but the internet would have a field day.”
And my dad, who’d love nothing more than to see me hook up with Gabi.
“What internet? We’re in the middle of nowhere.” She shrugs. “And relationship rumors between co-stars are a good thing. I’m just saying, neither of us are attached right now.”
“I’ll be fine,” I say quickly, shutting it down before she can run with it. The last thing I need is to give my father hope—or ammo, rather, since hope would imply actual concern.
Gabi and I are friends, nothing more. But that doesn’t matter to him.
In us, he sees Hollywood’s next power couple.
He thinks she’s exactly what I need to get out of the “acting slump” I must be in, despite her taking this role, which he insists is a calculated move on her part to “get closer to me.” Translation: manipulate me, something he wholeheartedly supports.
If I’m America’s Prince, as the tabloids have so fatuously dubbed me, Gabrielle Martin is their Queen. She doesn’t need anything from anyone, least of all me. But I needed something from her, which is why she’s here.
I move her feet to the coffee table and reclaim my spot on the couch. “I should have booked something when you did, but the idea of roughing it with the crew sounded authentic.”
“Slumming it in a motor lodge isn’t method acting.”
Agreed.
She shoots me a glance. “I’m guessing with your nepo-baby issues, staying with Artie’s out?”
“I don’t have nepo-baby issues.”
“And yet you won’t even consider a role in one of your father’s blockbusters.”
“I know you might find this hard to believe, but I’m not into car chases and green screens. I want to be challenged. I want roles I actually earn.”
“Like how you earned this one?” Gabi giggles as I lob a throw pillow at her.
“Walked right into that.”
Arthur Gutierrez, the director, told me about this project before it even had a script.
I wasn’t sold at first, but I was curious enough to check out the book it was based on.
Figured I’d skim it—romance isn’t really my thing.
But once I picked it up, I couldn’t put it down.
The next morning, I called Artie, and he said the part was mine.
“What was I supposed to do? Demand Artie let me audition?”
“Yes!” she says, bouncing a little as her feet hit the floor. “Preferably with the Big Dance Scene.”
I grimace, and the bounce drains out of her.
“That bad, huh?”
“Bad doesn’t even begin to cover it.” I learned to surf for Coral Coast. Play guitar for Cold Night in November.
Hell, I even sang in that one, and I can’t sing.
But dancing’s apparently beyond my ability.
I lift my baseball cap and shove a hand through my hair.
“It’s so damn frustrating. It’s just a couple minutes of footwork, for fuck’s sake. We don’t even have lines.”
Gabi leans against the armrest, folding her long legs beneath her. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. Artie knew you didn’t dance when he cast you.”
Didn’t, not couldn’t.
I appreciate that she made the distinction, even if it’s wrong.
“He also has faith I’ll pull it off. That dance scene is pivotal. The fans are rabid for it—and we’ve already moved the dialogue.” I sink into the cushions. “Artie wants a full-body one-take on the dolly. It’s what I’d go for too.”
“Shit, Holden. I wish I could help, but I’m not much better. Give me a samba any day, but two-stepping? Lucky for me, it’s a sexist activity. I only have to follow.”
“You are helping, Gab. You only took this role because I asked you to.” Gabi’s a hot commodity: box office draw, ridiculously talented. But her casting divided the fan base. Half were all for it. The other half wanted Sydney Sweeney.
But they’ll show up because it’s her. They always do.
“Artie’s my friend,” she says. “And so are you. Besides, I’m between projects, so the timing’s right.” She elbows my arm. “I miss working with you, Shaw, and since you’re intent on slumming it…”
“Well, Ms. Martin, you make a lovely commoner,” I say, just as my phone starts up again. I bend forward to pick it up, my father’s name flashing on the screen. “Jesus Christ.”
“What if it’s about your sister?”
My pulse ratchets up at the thought. With six-point-five half-siblings—four of them girls—a normal person might wonder, Which sister? But as far as I’m concerned, there’s only one. The others are like sequels in a franchise that’s never going to end.
“I’m the last person he’d call if it were Hannah,” I say, but with the seed planted, I dial him back anyway. “Yeah, Dad, what’s up?”
“What’s up? I’ve been calling you since six o’clock.”
“I’m on set in Texas. I’m busy.”
“In Texas?” He acts like this is news to him. Five seconds of dramatic silence are followed by a patronizing snort, one I hear so often, I’m surprised it isn’t trademarked. “Artsy Artie’s rom-com? I figured you’d come to your senses on that one.”
“It’s not a rom-com, Dad.”
“I’m having lunch with a few people to discuss Ashes of Eden,” he says. “When will you be back?”
“Not before lunch.”
“Look, son, we’re talking about the lead role in the biggest film of the year, possibly the past five years. Do you have any idea what a part like this would do for your career? You need to climb down from your high horse and show some goddamn interest.”
“Dad, we’ve been over this. I’m not showing interest because I’m not interested.” I lean forward, elbows on my knees, throbbing head in my hand. “I’ll be back in a month. We can talk when I pick up Hannah.”
“Pick up Hannah for what?”
I jerk upright. For what? Are you kidding me right now? “Hawaii, Dad. Come on. I take her every year. You know this.”
“Oh, well, probably not this year,” he mutters. “My secretary’s putting her to work for the summer.”
My jaw tightens. “Work? She’s eleven.”
“And she needs to start learning some responsibility,” he says. “Can’t have all my kids turning into spoiled little shits.”
“Dad, please don’t do this. She’s been looking forward to this trip all year. Let me have her for a week.”
“Tell you what, kid. I’ll push today’s meeting out one month. Show up as the prince you were born to be—not the pauper you’re so committed to playing—and we’ll revisit Hannah’s summer plans after that.”
A woman’s voice murmurs something I can’t make out. Then I hear a bed creak, and my stomach turns. Hundred bucks it isn’t his wife.
“I’m hanging up now.”
“And clear out your voicemail,” he says. “It’s been full for weeks.”
The call disconnects, and it’s all I can do not to hurl my phone across the room. I throw my hat instead.
It’s un-fucking-believable how a man who’s disappointed me most of my life continually manages to top himself. Now he’s using my sister as a bargaining chip, because of course he is.
Heat rises under my skin, not from the sun or the lack of AC, but from the boil in my blood. I’m on my feet and across the room to the open window in three long strides. “He’s such a dick.”
“I shouldn’t have encouraged you.”
“It’s not your fault. You know how he is.”
The sofa sighs beneath her. “What are you going to do?”
I grip the windowsill so tight I’m surprised it doesn’t splinter. “Guess I’m starring in my first blockbuster,” I bite out. “Twenty million dollars for a role a trained monkey could play.”
Shit. Gabi’s all about the blockbusters, but when I turn, her gaze is as steady as ever. If I’ve offended her, she’s not showing it. “I’m sorry. I’m not suggesting…”
“You don’t have to apologize to me, Shaw. For you, it’s about the art. For me, it’s about the fame. The lifestyle. Does that make me shallow? Probably.” She shrugs. “I get paid twenty mil a film to do what a ‘trained monkey’ could do. Can’t say I see that as a bad thing.”
“Don’t suppose I can talk you into Dad’s movie too, can I?”
“Ashes of Eden? God, I wish, but I’m already committed to that HBO thing.”
“That HBO thing,” as she so casually calls it, is expected to be the next global obsession.
My phone lights up on the sofa beside her, and I let out a groan.
“It’s Hannah,” she says, standing to hand it to me.
“Hey, Hannah Banana, how’s my favorite sibling?” Her sharp inhale hits like a punch to the gut.
“Han, what’s wrong?” I ask, knowing full well what’s wrong.
“It’s D-Dad,” she chokes out. “He said I c-can’t go this summer.”
The son of a bitch.
I tighten my grip on the phone. “Let me worry about Dad, okay?”
“No, Holden. He s-said no.”
I spit out a curse as the backstage door swings open. “Take the Bull by the Horns”—quite possibly the worst song ever recorded—blasts into the room as Artie’s wife, Jean, pokes her head inside.
“Hang on a sec, sis.”
“Holden, dear,” Jean says, “you’re being—oh, sorry, you’re on the phone. I’ll wait.”
One one thousand. Two one thousand.
“Hannah, I need to call you back.” The music (if you can call it that) cuts out, and I lower my voice. “I promise I’ll fix this, okay?”
Her muffled sob squeezes the air out of me. “Okay.”
I hang up just as the song starts over, and my already throbbing head kicks up another notch.
“Sorry about that,” I say to Jean, still standing in the doorway.
She gives me a sad smile. “You’re being summoned.”
“Can it wait?” I nod toward Gabi. “We’re rehearsing a scene.”
Her eyes flick back to the stage. “I don’t think so, sweetheart. He’s with someone.”
I swallow a groan. Me and my big mouth. Today is not the day for a meet and greet. “Tell him I’ll be right there.”
As soon as Jean leaves, I snatch my hat off the floor and put it on. “If I’m not back in thirty…”
“I’ll stage a colossal diva emergency.” Gabi nudges my arm. “Hannah okay?”
“Dad’s got her riled up. Probably knew she’d call me.”
“If there’s anything I can do…”
I wave off her concern. There’s nothing. It is what it fucking is.
Gabi grabs her purse off the coffee table, fishes out a packet of bright orange earplugs, and hands them to me.
“Slow, deep breaths,” she says. “Try not to lose it. But if you do, I’ve got your back.”
“I’m not in the best place to be meeting fans right now,” I say, tearing open the cellophane.
“Presumptuous much?” She cocks a brow. “What makes you think it’s a fan? Artie would never.”
“Yeah, well, I told him he could. He’s from here. Family still lives in the area.” I scrub a hand over my stubbled jaw. “Pretty sure his mom pulled rank.”
Gabi snorts, something I’m certain she only does around me. “Well, fingers crossed this fan his mom pulled rank for turns out to be an AC repairman.”
“Fingers crossed.”
I slip in the earplugs and head for the door.