Page 8 of Reckless
The caffeine keeps me up until nearly three in the morning, and I use the time to clean up the leftovers and unpack a little more. I give a passing thought to arming my security system, but the first time I tried, it took me thirty minutes and three calls to the company before I could get it to go back off, so I’m wary of the damn thing. I hear my parents in the back of my head, scolding me, but one night won’t hurt. All the doors and windows are locked, and no one even knows where I live. I make a mental note to read the handbook and figure it out this week, though.
By the time I fall into bed, the weariness from a long day settles over me like a heavy blanket. I set an early alarm to take a shower before work and fall into an immediate, fitful sleep.
* * *
Five thirty comes way, way too soon, but this is exactly what I signed up for. Even so, I struggle to roll out of bed and hit the snooze button at least twice before I throw the covers back and sit up. The sun is barely through the curtains, but I can already hear the sounds of traffic filtering through. The sound makes me smile, surprisingly. It would make my father furious. I’m already looking forward to their first visit.
I manage a quick shower, a breakfast bar, and a cold coffee drink relatively on schedule. While I wait for an Uber, I check the social media accounts created for the film. A healthy amount of growth already, not that I expected much as we haven’t done an official launch or push yet. Just looking at it energizes me and wipes away the last remaining dregs of fatigue the coffee didn’t eradicate.
I get a text that my Uber is close and idly switch over to my own Instagram account. In the past few months, I haven’t been very active. I haven’t really done anything of importance to share with my small amount of followers until now. The photo I shared of me on the plane to California was the first thing I’ve shared all year. Scrolling through the comments, I find myself smiling. When I finish reading them, I see I have a message, which is rare because I never use Instagram for chatting. Or DMing or whatever it is. I rarely even like to text.
I don’t recognize the name on the account, and it barely even registers as I tap the message on the screen. It opens as the Uber pulls up to the curb in front of my new apartment. After exchanging polite conversation with the driver and settling into the back seat, I go back to the message. I don’t understand what I’m reading at first. It’s as though my brain has done a hard shutdown and reboots.
No one wants you here. You should go back to where you came from if you know what’s good for you.
A hard fist seems to grip my throat. Breathing fast, the phone falls from my nerveless hands to my lap, and I look up and glance around the inside of the dark interior of the SUV as though it’ll have answers or provide comfort. But there’s nothing there to provide guidance except for a folder of cheerful notes from the driver and complimentary Kleenex. I take a desperate handful and blot at my wet eyes before I look back at the message still staring accusingly at me.
It’s someone playing a trick on me. A stupid internet troll, that’s all. I’ve dealt with them often enough in my career that it shouldn’t bother me. It’s nerves, that’s all. My emotions are simmering so close to the surface it doesn’t take much to have them bubbling over.
Before I can resist the urge, I tap on the profile name. Smith Johnson. It doesn’t ring a bell. I’ve been in L.A. for such a short time, so how could I have already pissed someone off enough to turn them into a troll?
Naturally, the profile is empty—no profile picture, no posts. They’re only following one account.
Mine.
Chapter Four
Griffin
“Again,” Oswald instructs, his tone devoid of inflection.
I’m reminded of Shelley Duvall inThe Shiningand how Stanley Kubrick nearly drove her crazy during filming. Rumor has it he made her shoot the staircase scene a hundred times before he deemed it acceptable. If Oswald thinks he’s going to drive me crazy as some sort of motivational tactic, he’ll have to think again. It’ll take a lot more than the eternal scowl of disapproval to make me crazy.
The scene resets around me, props and extras returning to their original positions. Makeup retouches my castmates, who are unnaturally quiet under the careful observation of our dictator—I mean director. I drink deeply from an ever-present water bottle as I wait for the signal to begin again.
And again.
And then again.
“You’re doing great,” comes a voice I feel deep in my solar plexus. I look up from the script, which I’ve been pretending to study. “You only look like you want to punch him half the time.”
I school my face into an unreadable expression as I turn to face Phoebe Hart. “If it’s only half the time, then I’m a better actor than I thought.”
At her smile, I automatically regret cracking a joke. Her smile . . . it’s a little crooked with a dimple on one side, which only seems to magnify how beautiful her eyes are. She’s no starlet, but that goddamn smile is as much of a siren call as my GT.
“Clearly, you don’t give yourself enough credit. Don’t tell anyone,” she says and leans close enough I can smell the scent of flowers clinging to her peaches and cream skin, “but I think he’s so hard on you because he admires you.”
I snort and try not to breathe her in. “That’s what admiration looks like to you?”
Phoebe studies me for a second, searching my eyes with hers like she can read something inside me. Maybe she can. Maybe she can read deep down inside where my darkest secrets reside. I glance down and away from her under the guise of checking something in my script.
When I look back up again, her expression is patient and understanding, making my gut tighten for reasons I don’t understand. Reasons I don’t want to understand.
“It doesn’t to you? Think about it. I doubt a man like Oswald would waste two seconds on anything he didn’t think was worthy.”
“Are you trying to butter me up?” I ask, suspicious. Then realization dawns, and I sigh. “What interview do you want?”
Her brows knit, and she takes a half step back. I hadn’t even realized we’d drawn so close together. “We don’t have any interviews scheduled for today. Right now, we’re working on background photography and scheduling.” Her sunny grin returns. “Unless you’re offering. I’m sure I could whip something up for the infamous Griffin McNalley. You’ve been a bit of a mysterious darling for the press. I’m sure any of them would trip over themselves to talk to you about what you’re working on.”