Sliding across the leather seat so that the sides of our bodies touched, Kevin said in a low, warning voice, “You’re almost broke. And if you want to keep paying for your fancy hotels, you’ll meet with Dickson.” When I began to give him a pissy reply, he flicked his gaze up at the driver, whose eyes were glued to the deluge of traffic ahead, and whispered, “You’re on everyone’s shit list. You stand Dickson up and you can kiss any acting for this year goodbye, unless you’re into taking off your clothes and deep penetration.”
“Don’t be disgusting,” I whispered, swinging away from Kevin. I gripped the edge of the leather seat and focused my attention on the hem of the fitted color block dress he’d brought me. I’d gained ten pounds while at Serenity Hills and was on the verge of looking like a sausage stuffed inside of a pink, white and brown wrapper, but I liked the summery outfit. Still, I should have realized when the rehab counselor brought me a Neiman Marcus bag full of clothes to wear home with the price tags still dangling from them that something was going down.
Like a meeting with a producer.
But as much as I hated to admit it, Kevin was right. Dickson or sex was about it for me as far as acting went at the moment. I didn’t care whether or not I ever received a role again, but broke is broke. Acting was quick, easy money. And I already knew my parents weren’t about to give me any of the money they’d made off me over the years, or any of the money I’d earned before I turned eighteen nearly two years ago. I wasn’t set to receive any of that until I turned twenty-one—in thirteen months.
I pulled in a deep breath. “Do you know what the part is for?” I couldn’t imagine it being something big. Nobody in their right mind would offer me a leading role. Late last year, right before I checked in to Serenity Hills, I had bailed on a project that was based on some huge bestselling fantasy book.
I’d never read it, but there was a copy being passed around rehab. Some of the girls had ignored me for days when they found out I was the reason filming had been delayed.
Kevin scratched his chin, cocking his head to the side. “Your father told me they sent you the script.”
Of course Dad did. I twisted my head back to the window, glanced down at the PDA junkies, and resumed raking my fingers through my hair—this time so forcefully it burned my scalp.
“Well, he didn’t,” I said.
“With that attitude, it’s no wonder nobody wants to hire you.”
“Screw you too, Kevin,” I muttered. But as I pressed my forehead hard against the cold glass, I considered my agent’s words. My attitude had nothing to do with my lack of parts over the past few years, though I was on the verge of being blacklisted. I bared my teeth, frustrated at myself for what I was about to do.
“Fine, I’ll go,” I said.
Kevin was already sighing in relief before the first syllable stumbled past my lips.
***
We arrived at Junction, one of my favorite restaurants, ten minutes late. The hostess escorted Kevin and me to a square booth adjacent to a towering wine rack. Dickson was already there, sitting next to a guy with tousled blonde hair, whose head was down, focused on the menu.
His new assistant, maybe?
No, that couldn’t be it. James Dickson was always pretty adamant about his staff dressing professionally for business meetings, especially his assistants. The guy beside him wore a faded lime green Hollister T-shirt that hugged his biceps and chest—that lean muscular look I’d always lost my breath over.
Maybe this was Dickson’s son. I shrugged off that idea almost as quickly as the last. For starters, I was pretty sure James Dickson didn’t have any kids and once again, he was too professional to bring one to a meeting.
So who the hell was this guy? I narrowed my eyes at the top of his head, wishing he’d shift his gaze up so I could get a good look at him, but he didn’t budge.
Junction’s menu couldn’t be that damn interesting.
Dickson stood, grinning broadly, and he placed his hands on either side of my shoulders, giving them a squeeze. “Willow, it’s so good to see you again,” he said earnestly as the hostess placed our menus down on the table. She murmured that our server would be with us shortly before walking away.
“You too,” I told Dickson, returning his smile. “Really, it is.”
Out the corner of my eye I saw a flicker of light—a camera phone. I didn’t blink, but I felt the familiar jolt inside that I’d learned to control years ago. The flashing was the one thing I hadn’t missed while I was holed up in rehab, but it never changed. That picture would show up on gossip sites before I was finished eating lunch.
What Not to Wear
Willow Avery: The Post Rehab Files
Ten Pounds and Counting as She Pigs Out at Junction
The world would feed off my downfall, savoring every morsel, and there wasn’t a thing I could do to stop it.
I pulled away from Dickson’s grasp to slide into the booth. Kevin came in right behind me, grinning like the cat that ate the canary.
“You haven’t changed a bit,” Dickson said, once he was settled into his own seat. As I let his words register, I fought to keep from flinching, to keep the look of defeat out of my green eyes. Because he was lying.
I have changed.
And in more ways than just the tiny frown lines at the corners of my eyes and the thin, silvery scars on the inner elbow of my left arm (from an escape I’d only tried a couple times, over a year before).
The last time I worked with Dickson was more than five years ago. I’d played the lead in a modern day Sleeping Beauty, minus the creepy magical fairies. Back then, I had been box office gold and the only thing I’d wanted to do was act.