Page 8 of Over & Out (Redbeard Cove #3)

Hopper

I wake to the sound of whispering. Not that you’d call this haze fully awake.

I get the sense there’s someone in the bedroom of this beach house we’re renting in Redbeard Cove for filming.

Two someones, since they’re whispering to each other.

But I’m too tired to deal with any someones, so I pull the pillow over my head. “Please, fuck off.”

There are too many people in my life and personal space at all times.

But that’s what I signed up for, right?

“Time to wake up, Hop.”

I groan at Tru’s voice. If I ignore her, she won’t stop. Still, I can put her off a bit longer. “Get lost, Tru.”

That would be rude as hell to anyone else. But that’s our rapport.

I grew up on the set of a show where during every episode, my on-screen dad and I would have deep talks on the family’s stoop about responsibility, peer pressure, and the dangers of drugs and alcohol.

Then the minute they called cut, he’d scream at me for blowing the take, scream at craft service if they didn’t have the right kind of sprouted wheat bread for his lunch, and leave the door to his trailer open while he did blow off a naked escort’s ass.

Like, I was actually witness to that, walking by at thirteen years old.

He didn’t get fired either. My own dad was almost as bad.

I’ve seen shit behavior for years in this industry, and I like to think I’m not at the bottom of the barrel. I’m certainly not winning any Mr. Congeniality prizes either.

But I just want to go back to sleep.

I was having a good dream, for once. I was a little kid again, riding down a hill on my BMX.

Only, instead of jumping the puddle at the bottom like I used to do in real life, it turned into a lake and the bike turned into a magic floating bike.

Don’t ask me. All I know is it was great.

Reminded me of the before times. Normal times. Before all of…this.

More whispering. I curl the pillow tighter around my head.

Mountain Man hasn’t started filming. I have no promo to do.

I specifically asked for no meetings of any kind today since I’ve got an insane six-hour gym session later.

I peek out from under the pillow to the window, which is streaked with rain.

It’s still dark out too. But it always seems to be dark out here in the winter.

“Go away!” I grumble.

A weird rumbling noise follows. I’m about to lose my shit. I’m going to yell at Tru and she’s going to yell back and?—

GO-O-O-ONG!

I yelp. Loudly. The pillow goes flying. I swear my head is doing that cartoon side-to-side wobble as the reverberation of the gong sound vibrates through my skull.

“What the fuck ?” I yell, only half sitting up. My eyes are so bleary that my two assistants, Tru and Cindi, along with a giant round thing, appear in double. No. Quadruple.

I sit up fully, glowering. “A gong, Tru? Are you kidding me? What if I was hungover?”

Tru’s holding the gong stick or whatever the hell that thing is. “Like it?”

She bangs it again.

“No, I don’t fucking like it!” I flop back down, throwing an arm over my eyes.

“Good!” Tru says, sounding way too satisfied for my liking.

“Get it out of here!” I grumble.

“The gong stays,” says Cindi, my second assistant.

The one who’s supposed to be nice to me.

I lift my arm up to give her a stern look.

She’s in her mid-sixties and all of four eleven, with pale skin, short white hair, and glasses perched at the end of her nose.

And the energy of a goddamned teenager. I strongly suspect she’s the one leaking all the updates on my health and dating habits to my manager Mabel, since Mabel lives in LA and can’t keep her motherly eye on me all the time.

Luckily for me, I’m in excellent health.

And despite what the gossip sites claim, I haven’t dated anyone in months.

I haven’t had the stomach for it. So I know the updates are far from juicy.

“The gong goes,” I warn Cindi. Everyone’s going to bang the hell out of that thing anytime they feel like getting my attention if it stays.

Cindi gives the gong a hug. “I’m gonna call him James Gong.”

I roll my eyes but can’t help crack a smile, which I hide by covering my face with a pillow.

“Hopper,” Tru says. “You need to get up now. Everyone’s waiting for you.”

The primary bedroom in this house is off the kitchen. Which is deeply annoying, because it means it’s easier for my team members to do shit like this. “Who’s here?”

“Adrian, Mabel, Aziz,” Tru says. “And Chris.”

I groan. Everyone’s here. In person. Adrian Liu, a shark perpetually dressed in Gucci but somehow the most affable dude I know, is my agent.

Mabel Johnson, who was a good friend of my mom’s, is my manager.

Both of them live in LA. Aziz is my trainer, but he’s local.

Why are they here? Then I register Tru said another name.

“Who the hell is Chris?”

“Put some pants on and come find out,” Tru says.

I say nothing, making no promises.

“You might like to know,” Cindi says, “That James Gong is on wheels. I’m going to bring it outside your door and bang it every sixty seconds until you come out.”

I throw the pillow down. There’s no arguing with either of them when they want something.

Five minutes later, I’ve pulled on a pair of gray sweats and staggered out into the kitchen, not bothering to look at the three people standing around the island until I’ve gotten some coffee. I head for the machine, my back to them, but Cindi appears beside me with an already filled mug.

“Thanks,” I grumble. I lean a hand on the counter, looking out the window. The view is almost pretty enough to cut through my headache.

“So,” Tru says. “We’re all here is because it’s Chris’s first day.”

I sip my coffee. The hot black drink hits my bloodstream but doesn’t do much to perk me up.

I’m in a foul fucking mood. It’s this town.

Despite the thick slope of trees and sweep of ocean in front of me, being here brings me right back to a very bad time I’ve spent three months trying hard to forget.

“Oh yeah?” I ask. “Who’s Chris?” I’m being rude as hell, I know.

I hate that too, but I can’t muster up the energy to not be.

“I’ll be replacing Tru,” says a sardonic, firm, and, frankly, sexy female voice. “Maybe.”

That last word was muttered. So quiet I almost didn’t hear it.

My hand holding the coffee mug freezes part way to my mouth. Because that voice—something about that voice—has my heart suddenly crawling into my throat. The soft, almost muffled quality of that word is so familiar, like it echoed across my dreams.

And not the happy ones.

I turn around, my eyes zeroing in on the unfamiliar person. The woman in a dark blue blazer. Only to find she’s not unfamiliar.

I’ve seen her before, I’m certain. For a moment, my rapidly beating heart squeezes so hard I feel like I’ve caught a thrashing animal there .

Could it be?

But the woman smirks, and my heart sinks like a stone. Of course the person I thought she was wouldn’t look familiar. I never properly saw her face. Idiot . But worse—oh so much worse—my stomach plummets, because I know exactly who this woman is.

“Tru.” I set my coffee down on the counter a little too hard, leveling my gaze at my assistant. My excellent, annoying-as-hell assistant who’s going off to her beautiful dream life. She’s finally found her replacement, and it’s the worst person imaginable. “No you fucking didn’t.”

“I did,” Tru says, looking pleased. Like not pleased because I’m suffering, but pleased because she thinks she did good. She did not.

I narrow my eyes at the woman in question. All I wanted that morning was some goddamned hair of the dog. She may have given me an impressive run for my money, but she was an enormous pain in my ass.

I shake my head, moving back toward the bedroom. “Nope.”

“Hopper!” Tru says. Her tone holds a warning.

I don’t care. Not about this. I stalk to my closet, my fist wrapping around the first piece of fabric I can reach. It’s a silky black dress shirt. I toss it aside, annoyed. I look around, overwhelmed by all the drawers, then spot the hamper.

“Hop, no!” Cindi says at the door, like I’m a dog.

“Why not?” I am a dog, right? That’s what the press says. I root through the bin. And I proved that at the restaurant. I was an absolute ass to that woman.

What else is new ?

I give the shirt a sniff. It’s a little rough, but not the worst. But before I pull it on, I remember I left my coffee out there. It’s the only thing that has a chance of stopping this increasingly pounding headache.

When I stalk back out, the whole team’s eyes are on me. “You know, normal people don’t have a fucking staff meeting first thing in the morning.”

“Oh, you’re not normal, honey,” Adrian says, his tone pitying.

“And it’s not first thing in the morning,” Mabel adds.

Tru places her hands on her belly. “Normal people don’t put off meetings that their team has worked very hard to schedule because they somehow think the topic of said meeting will just go away .” She taps her fingers meaningfully on her distended middle.

I glower at Tru. Okay, so she’s right. I have been putting this off.

But I don’t want Tru to go. I’m not delusional.

I know she has to. But there’s still an absolutely delusional part of me that’s been wanting to wake up to find Tru’s pregnancy a dream.

Which of course makes me feel like selfish garbage, because I’m only thinking about myself and my needs, when Tru and her husband are over the goddamned moon.

I close my eyes and tip my head back, gathering strength.

When I open them again, I look straight at the server.

I’m not sure what I expect. Maybe for her to look wounded, which would be fair.

It’s not personal, but it is an asshole move to hate her because she’s replacing my left hand.

And a little bit because she pissed me off in a way I think I almost liked.