Chapter 4
four
patton
Treat-me-so-good, Gooseberry
Igroan, stuffing my pillow under my chest and turning to relieve the pressure off my back. There isn’t a visible bruise there, but damn, she got me good.
The thought makes me smile.
She makes me smile.
She kicked my ass last night but I suppose that’s nothing new. Between the two of us, she was always better—at landing a kick, a punchline, or an exit.
And damn if she isn’t still the most magnificent thing to step on a mat, all lethal grace and controlled power.
Just the way she was when we were teens, taking after-school taekwondo classes at the same dojang.
I loved those hours on the mat, especially because they meant I could spend more time with the girl from school who was slowly becoming more than my best friend, but theater was always my true calling.
From as far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be an actor.
And while the path was often unclear and rocky, I had one constant—a girl who always believed in me, even when I didn’t believe in myself.
Whether it was our school’s small stage or theaters all across the world, she was my biggest fan.
Until I lost her somewhere along the way.
The memory of last night seeps back in—her sharp kick, the rage burning in her eyes, and the way she shivered when I told her I was here for her—and I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face.
I tested that tightly-held control of hers, and I have neither a regret nor an apology to offer for it. Not for last night, at least.
Because my regrets and apologies span years.
Just as the scent of fresh paint, new sheets, and cardboard register in my senses, reminding me I spent the night in my new house, a wet, slobbery tongue drags across the bottom of my foot.
Perfect.
Usually I have the wherewithal, even in my sleep, to keep my feet under the blankets for this very reason, but clearly, that final kick last night knocked that out-of-whack, too, besides just my back.
“Morning, buddy,” I mumble, hearing his nails tap across the hardwood as he lumbers around my bed to give me one of his signature disappointed and judgmental stares. “Give me five more minutes okay?”
Bob, all one-hundred and twenty healthy pounds of him, is somehow the oldest-looking two-year-old bloodhound in existence.
With the droopy jowls of a grumpy old man nodding off on his porch rocker, eye bags that could double as suitcases, and enough sagging skin to suggest he’s seen some shit in his day, Bob looks like he’s one dog treat away from retirement.
But as tired and despondent as his eyes might look, they’re just a front. Because under that droopy facade is the soul of a Tasmanian Devil with a penchant for theatrics.
For example, he just collapsed on the floor, as if he’s been shot, with the most outrageous sigh ever heard. As if my asking for five extra minutes was akin to telling him he’ll be going hungry for a week, or God forbid, that he’ll never have another Starbucks pup-cup.
The flowery bra he stole out of a box in my closet—one of the only things my ex-wife accidentally left behind—lies on the floor next to him like a trophy from a scandalous night.
I swear, he walks around with it clasped in his mouth all day, like he’s waiting to clasp it on in case he’s asked to walk a Victoria’s Secret runway.
And no matter how many times I’ve tried to sneak it away from him, he’s found it, giving me an “I’m on to you” stare, reminiscent of Robert De Niro from Meet The Parents, and taken it back.
He stares back at me when I open one eye to look at him. Dammit! I should have pretended to have gone back to sleep!
He sighs again, a flutter catching his jowls.
Jesus. This dog.
“Fine,” I groan, flinging my blanket off and wincing when my back protests.
I slowly haul myself out of bed, running a hand through my hair before dragging it over my face. I check the time on my phone—seven twenty-three. So much for sleeping in.
But I suppose I need to get moving, anyway. I’m meeting Troy and his friends for brunch this morning.
I’ve already met with Troy twice this past week—once to get to know him, and once to talk more about the elbow injury that took him out of the MLB for a year. It’s the same injury that he came back from to win the last World Series and quickly became the inspiration for my next movie.
I might have had other reasons for insisting on making this film—personal, unfinished business—but artistic integrity and a heroic story were an easier sell to my agent.
So when Troy suggested brunch with his friends, knowing I’ll be in town, shooting for the next few months, I didn’t hesitate. Besides, my ex-sister-in-law’s new fiancé strikes me as a solid dude overall, so hanging out with him is far from a hardship.
Theatrics forgotten, Bob jumps to his paws behind me, trusty bra in his mouth as I make my way to the bathroom to brush my teeth, then to the kitchen. I try not to stub my toe on one of the few boxes I told the decorator not to open as I make my way there.
How she and her team managed to furnish this home—curtains, paintings, and all the shit that makes a house feel lived-in—only hours after I purchased it, is beyond me. But I guess that’s what I pay them for.
And speaking of purchasing this home, if I hear what a “professionally irresponsible” decision it was from my team once more, I’m going to start handing out pink-slips.
Yeah, I get it; it’s not the sort of home a Hollywood A-lister might settle down in.
Sure, there are security guards posted at the gated entrance to this upscale private neighborhood, but the homes themselves aren’t walled off, or hidden behind iron gates or towering hedges.
Just tree-lined streets, kids riding their bikes, and front porches decorated with potted plants and swings.
It’s the kind of normalcy my heart has been searching for since . . . her. Since that one fucking fateful night seven years ago, when I came back to an empty house and a goodbye letter I still carry around with me.
This was the kind of life I’d promised her we’d have, but never delivered.
Yet another regret to add to my long and weighty list.
So when Troy casually mentioned that the house across from my ex-wife’s was on the market, I considered it fate.
Some might call it stalking, but eh, tomato, tomahto.
Of course, since I purchased the place, my team went into panic mode, installing cameras, arranging security detail around the neighborhood, and monitoring everything as if I’d just been elected president.
And though they’re pissed at me for not letting them ask the neighborhood to sign NDAs, I told them to relax.
I didn’t move here to sit inside a bunker; I moved here to breathe . . .
And execute my plan.
If that means I’ll be photographed here and there, well, la-dee-fuckin’-da. There are enough pictures of me on the internet to satisfy even the craziest fans, so what if there’s one more?
That doesn’t mean I’ll be stupid and purposefully get recognized or photographed. Hence, the reason I wore the balaclava and gave my middle name at the dojang last night.
Plus, there’s also Nisha’s privacy to think about.
She never cared much about getting photographed when we were married, as long as the paparazzi kept a respectful distance, but I wouldn’t want to put her in the limelight again without her consent.
It’s why I’m going to make a concerted effort to be low-key and fly as much under the radar as I can.
With Bob waiting patiently—okay, more like he’s watching my every move like a hired P.I.—I take a cup out of the cupboard and place it under the kind of coffee machine that looks like it requires an advanced degree to operate.
I’ve just pressed what I think is the “Make My Coffee and Don’t Explode” button when my doorbell rings.
Bob’s reaction is completely over-the-top, as is everything my dog does.
First, he lets out a low gruff, drops the bra from his mouth, then charges the door with a bark loud enough to wake the neighborhood. Then, squaring his shoulders, he plants himself in front of the door, staring at the doorknob as if daring it to turn. He gives two more barks for good measure.
When I don’t rush behind him with equal fervor or concern, he drags his droopy, judgmental gaze to me. I can practically hear him say, “What the fuck, man? Am I the only one who gives a crap about becoming the next headline on a true crime show? I’m too pretty for this shit.”
“Christ, Bob. It’s probably just Alex,” I mutter, referring to my publicist as I walk toward him. “You know the asshole doesn’t believe in weekends or boundaries . . . or normal working hours.”
But when I open the door, it’s not Alex on the other side. It’s an box.
Bob approaches it like he’s a Homeland Security agent, sniffing it for explosives, drugs or, God forbid, butterflies.
Yeah, my ginormous dog is terrified of butterflies or moths or basically any other harmless winged insect.
A couple of weeks ago, a small blue butterfly landed on his nose when he wasn’t suspecting it, and he practically fainted.
Seriously, his tail was tucked so tight against his belly, he looked like a corgi.
Don’t ask me why he is the way he is. At this point, I’ve just accepted it.
The thought makes me smile because it reminds me of someone else I know.
Tough as nails on the outside, with that sleeve of tattoos I’ve traced with my fingertips, coal-dark eyes that miss nothing, and that beautifully stubborn jaw I’ve felt against my lips.
She’s also the same woman who’s deathly scared of balloons.