“Wow, you came this whole way for him? Did he pay for your gas, at least?”
“Better than that—he hired me.”
“Really?”
“Said he needed someone to lighten his load and keep people off of his ass. I told him I wasn’t blowing anyone for him, but if he pays me enough, I’ve got no problem being his errand boy and yelling at him when he’s supposed to be somewhere,” he says. “And who am I kidding, for the obscene amount he offered me? I’d probably blow somebody.”
A personal assistant. Wow. I have no idea how the two of them are going to work together, but I can tell already it’s going to be interesting. “Well, thank you. I appreciate it.”
He mock salutes me. “Sure thing. Have a good night.”
“You, too,” I say, closing the door as he leaves. I lock up again before opening the box to find a spiral notebook inside. It’s simple, college-ruled, with a blue cover, a glittery blue gel pen on top of it. Couldn’t have cost him more than a dollar. When I take it out of the box, a note slips from the front of the notebook, falling to the floor by my feet. I pick it up to read.
Ten years ago, you ran away with me so I could follow my dream. It’s time you follow yours. Wherever it takes you, I’ll be there.
Happy Dreamiversary.
Jonathan
My eyes sting. Ugh, I’m crying. My vision blurs, and I blink away tears as I sit back down on the couch. I open the fresh notebook, staring at the blank lines for a moment before I start writing, glittery blue ink flowing across the page:
Rain fell from the overcast sky in sporadic bursts, quick manic showers followed by moments of nothingness. The weatherman on channel six had predicted a calm day, but the woman knew better. A tumultuous storm was rolling in. There was no way to avoid it.
Chapter 28
JONATHAN
“Love abroad.”
I pull my arm from across my tired eyes to glance at the door of my trailer, where Jazz stands, holding what I guarantee is the latest edition of Hollywood Chronicles, reading from it.
“I don’t want to hear it,” I mutter, covering my eyes again, trying to block out the world and steal a bit of peace, but that’s asking for a miracle. I’ve got a two-hour lull in the middle of filming, our first day back on American soil, and I’ve got the worst case of jet lag. I feel hung-over, that groggy ‘day after a coke binge’ sensation where I hate the fucking world and everyone in it—myself included.
“There’s nothing like the City of Love to rekindle a fire between former lovers,” Jazz says, ignoring me as she continues to read. “Sources on the Paris set of Breezeo: Ghosted tell us things are heating up again between Johnny Cunning and Serena Markson.”
If by ‘heating up’ they mean she makes me so fucking angry I could spit fire, they’d be right about that. Being around her has been intolerable.
“The pair have been spotted together a few times recently,” Jazz says. “Rumor has it Serena has chosen to forgive Johnny for his indiscretions after he begged her for another chance.”
Laughing dryly, I sit up. I’m not even going to entertain that bullshit with a response. “Jazz, no hard feelings, but can you just… fuck off?”
“Whatever you say, grouchy pants.” She skims the article as she says, “I wonder who their source on set could be.”
“You know they make shit up, right?” I shove to my feet, staggering over to the small fridge to find something with caffeine in it. “Or someone else makes shit up and feeds it to them.”
“Yeah, but somebody takes the pictures,” she says. “They sure aren’t made up.”
Bottled water. Vitamin Water. Some kind of fancy juice. No caffeine. Sighing, I grab some antioxidant pomegranate something before turning to Jazz. “There are pictures?”
“Of course,” she says, holding it up to show me—a full spread of set photos. “So much for a closed set. The call is coming from inside the house.”
She laughs at her own joke, but I don’t find any of it funny… probably since it’s my life they’re trying to destroy. It could be any number of people, but those who work in production tend to value their jobs too much to risk them.
Besides, there’s plenty of legitimate dirt they could sell me out with, not this manufactured relationship bullshit.
Opening the juice, I take a sip and gag, spitting it back out. “That’s disgusting. Where’s all the fucking caffeine?”
“Mr. Caldwell had it removed,” she says, closing the tabloid. “Something about you getting your life together.”
I sigh, tossing the juice in the trash before running my hands down my face. “I need a new manager.”
Jazz laughs, but she’s cut off when the trailer door pops open and Cliff walks in. Jazz excuses herself, making a speedy exit.