Page 30 of Reckless
“Griffin . . .”
“What do you want to know? If we’re going to explore what this is between us, then you’re right. We should get to know each other better to see if we should fight for the other two points. Consider me an open book, babe.”
“Don’t you have work to do?”
I give her a slow, patient smile. “I’m on break. Not in this scene. We’ve got a couple hours at least. I’m all yours.”
“Well,Ihave work to do.”
“You don’t get a lunch?” I ask and have the pleasure of watching her jaw clench.
“Fine. One hour. But I have to warn you, I don’t think you’ll change my mind because I think you were right. Going further would be a mistake.”
Without answering her, I step out into the hall and quickly ask around to find sub sandwiches for lunch. I manage to snag a couple along with some soft drinks and a veggie platter. Bringing it all back to her cramped office, I arrange it on the desk in front of her.
“Eat up,” I say and settle back into what I consider to be my chair and start chowing down on a ham sub with the works. “Ask whatever you want.”
“Where are you from?”
I lift a brow. “That wasn’t in whatever black book I’m sure you have about me?”
An enigmatic smile crosses her lips. “There are a lot of things in my black book about you, but if we’re going to do this, I’m more interested in hearing things from your point of view.”
“Fair enough. Well, I’m from a small town in California. My parents have been married for thirty years and still live in the same town I grew up in.”
“Really? What do they think about all your flashy girlfriends?”
Of course, she wouldn’t pull punches. “They think I should settle down with a nice girl and give them grandchildren.”
At this, she chokes on a carrot stick slathered in ranch dressing. “You’re kidding.”
I shake my head. “Not at all. I’m an only child, and my mom mentions it at least once—or twice—a week.”
“What made you join the Marines?”
“My dad was a lifer. Served twenty years. It always seemed like I was going to be a Marine. Ended up serving for four years. I lived for the thrills.”
“What kind of thrills?” Was I imagining it, or was her voice thawing a little?
“Anything to get the blood pumping.”
“Is that why you got into doing stunts after you worked for Jackson’s company?”
I muse on the question as I finish off the last bite of the sandwich. “Yes and no. Acting and film were never on my radar, but I met this guy once when I was racing an old Shelby Mustang. He had been a stunt coordinator for years. One thing led to another, and eventually, I was working on so many films, I had to quit working for Jackson. He was pissed, but it’s been fun. I guess I needed a change from the ops and shit. A couple years later, I got offered my first acting role in a film. The rest, I guess you can say, is history.”
She’s quiet as she finishes her sub and plate of vegetables. I do the same, trying not to fidget as I wait for the inevitable.
“Um, I guess my next question is about what happened last year. You’ve never really talked publicly about it.”
The food in my stomach automatically turns to cement. I knew we’d have to talk about it eventually, but nothing ever seems to prepare me for the onslaught of memories. Clearing my throat, I say, “Well, I knew this was coming, but I said I was willing to talk about everything, and I’m not going to go back on my word. The official statement is that Allison Dupree died as a result of an accident while filming on set. Faulty or damaged brake lines, I think they said.”
Her hands rest in her lap, her eyes steady and focused on me, food forgotten. “To be honest, for a long time, I’d blocked it out. Probably plain denial. I spent a lot of time with my head in a bottle, trying not to remember. But there’s no erasing memories like that.” Still, she says nothing. “When I did remember, all I wanted to do was forget again. It was supposed to be a standard stunt. She wasn’t even supposed to be in the car. We’d been sleeping together for a couple weeks, and she somehow convinced me to let her ride with me instead of her double. Long story short, the car malfunctioned while we were at high speeds. I survived with barely a scratch. She didn’t survive.”
Chapter Fifteen
Phoebe
He rubs at his eyes, his exhaustion emphasized by the bruise-colored smudges underneath. Guilt pools in my stomach because I shouldn’t have pushed him, and yet, his honesty strikes me more deeply than any other quality about him.