Page 41 of Faking the Pass
I crossed the room and opened it, pasting on a smile for him. “I’m fine. Glad to have my own clothes again.”
He looked me over, apparently appreciating my outfit—a sleeveless top over a trim skirt and sandals. His eyes moved over my body before returning to my face.
“You look nice.”
My voice sounded a bit breathless when I responded. “Thanks.”
For some reason, his perusal had made me nervous. I attempted a breezy tone as I passed him in the hallway and headed for the open living room/kitchen area.
“Gray was nice.”
Presley followed me. “Yeah. He’s a good guy—and he gets the whole media scrutiny thing. He and Scarlett dealt with quite a bit of it themselves.”
“Speaking of,” he said. “Any word from Randy?”
He nodded toward the phone in my hand, and I looked down at it again, tapping to open yet another of Randy’s text messages.
“Lotsof words—most of them pretty angry.”
“Do you have to respond?” Pres asked.
I sighed. “I haven’t yet, but I think so. Despite what happened at the wedding, we’re still co-starring in a movietogether. There’s still publicity to do for that, and if I don’t do the press junkets with him, I’ll be in breach of the contract I signed and lose my entire salary for the film. Which as you know I’ve already spent.”
The thought of sitting beside Randy and making happy talk on camera made me nauseous. And the questions were bound to be beyond awkward.
As I read through more of Randy’s texts, that appeared to be what he really cared about.
They were all demands that I work with him to salvage the movie release, that I be “reasonable” and respond so we could work out a plan to move forward.
“He wants me to do a press conference with him,” I told Presley.
“Tell him to go fuck himself.”
His blunt response actually made me laugh.
“As much as I’d love to do that—or just ignore him and the whole thing—I’m not sure that’s an option.”
“Wait, you’re not actually thinking of doing it are you?” Presley asked.
I looked at him and shrugged.
“Why would you even consider doing anything that prick wants you to do?” he demanded.
“Because he’s the one with all the power,” I said. “He says he’ll ruin my career if I don’t. And he’ll do it, too, believe me. This guy makes Harvey Weinstein look like a sweetie. I can’t believe I ever thought he had my best interests at heart—or that he loved me.”
Presley scowled. “What does he expect you to tell everyone? That you were kidnapped by aliens? That you suddenly developed amnesia and forgot you were supposed to get married?”
“He wants me to back up the story he told the wedding guests, that I left because I was sick, and that we’re still a couple. He’s going to email a script.”
Presley snorted and shook his head in disgust. “This isn’t right. You shouldn’t have to cover for his douchebaggery.”
“No one said life was fair. Hey, did Gray happen to bring anything chocolate?” I asked.
“You and your cupcake addiction,” Presley teased. “I haven’t finished putting stuff away, but I doubt it.”
Wandering into the kitchen, I peeked inside the grocery bags. Not a speck of chocolate in sight. Damn. Maybe there was more wine somewhere.
I was certainly tempted to drown my sorrows insomesort of carbolicious substance, and I’d need alotof them to get through what was coming.
