A Safe Space (Someone Else's Fairytale Book 4) (3 page)

In the gym changing room, the clack of my boots against the tile floor adds to the cacophony of lockers slamming and water splattering in the showers. The air is moist, and I change as fast as I can, then go to the front desk to book a private exercise room, to which I escape and proceed to take out my stress on a punching bag. I land two good kicks, and then the tears start. Heedless, I kick and punch some more, and land hit after hit while saltwater streams down my cheeks.

Millions of dollars are on the line, and I am going to go down in
flames
. I’m out of my depth. I can’t play a twenty-six-year-old, I can’t garner more of an audience than Jason Vanderholt, and I definitely can’t work while the rest of the cast and crew are against me. My show is dead in the water before it’s even begun.

I kickbox until the insides of my forearms and my shins sting and sweat trickles down my back. It makes no difference to my mood. I am in way over my head.

“Veronica,” barks that familiar voice. “You want this room for another hour or what?”

I pause mid-kick and hop sideways to catch my balance before I turn and face him. Devon. He isn’t dressed for work anymore. His hair is wet from a shower and his T-shirt is tight enough that I can see his six-pack. I turn away fast so that he doesn’t see my tearstained cheeks.

“I think I’m good.”

“All right, princess. We’re actually closing in ten minutes. Think you can shower that fast?”

They’re closing? “How long have I been here?”

“Long enough. I’m the one closing up, though, so if you want to keep beating the crap out of a canvas bag, it’s all good by me. Provided you don’t take half the night to do it.”

Show confidence
, I think. “You got a conquest to make?” I look at him over my shoulder before I remember my undignified tearstains and wish I could slap myself. Why can’t I land a single verbal punch on this guy?

“Something like that,” he says. “What about you? Gotta get your beauty rest, right?”

The correct response is to say, “No, I don’t need any,” or turn the comment around and say, “Clearly you’d know nothing about that,” then look him up and down and snort in disgust. That’s how Kyra deals with him.

I don’t have the energy. I hunch my shoulders even though I know that’ll give him the upper hand. Without looking at him, I slink on past, through the door, and into the dark hallway beyond.

“Lizzie?” His voice is so soft that I can barely hear it.

But I do hear it, and I stop and turn. He never calls me by my real name.

“You okay?” He leans against the wall, and his arrogance isn’t gone, but it’s toned down. He talks as if we have more than snarky arguments in our history, like he’s an old acquaintance who never became a friend but will never be a stranger either. Like he’s someone I really could talk to. “If there’s anything you need, you can tell me, all right?”

I open my mouth then shut it.

He waits.

I
STAND IN
the dimness. The only light is from the room where Devon still stands. He walks up to me, making me feel shorter and more ridiculous with every step he takes. I brace myself for him to get inside my personal space or fire off an insult, but he doesn’t. He just stops and says, “Can I ask you something?”

I shrug, too thrown by this change of demeanor to answer coherently.

“Why are you here by yourself, at night? Don’t you have people? Handlers?”

“N-no, not really.”

“But you’re an actress. You had your own show.”

“Right, and I used to have a day-to-day manager with me and a personal assistant and all that.”

“So what happened?”

“They weren’t a good fit.” The words sound stupid, like they tumble from my mouth onto the carpet and stare back up at me with disgust. “My manager’s trying to help me find new staff.”

“What was wrong with the old staff?”

I let my shoulders sag with defeat. “I couldn’t afford them.”

“Oh.”

Go ahead,
I think.
Laugh at me, the little child star princess who overspent her income
. According to my legal history, I’ve been emancipated since I was sixteen, but the truth is, I’ve been on my own for much longer. My mother signed whatever people put in front of her, so I’ve endured poor contracts and two dubious “money managers” who put me so far into debt that I lost everything but one car, my clothes, and an apartment building here in Orange County that I purchased at the height of the property boom. It makes enough revenue to cover its mortgage, but no more. I can’t afford to sell it because it’d only fetch sixty percent of what I paid for it. Instead, I live in it. That’s why
Clues
films where it does—so that it’s convenient for me to get to. It’s a nice enough place, and there’s a grocery store around the corner I can walk to—as the paparazzi have documented for America time and again, because I can’t even grocery shop without people taking notice.

Fortunately, the paparazzi didn’t follow close enough to find out that Kyra had to show me how to grocery shop for the first time on my own, nor did they get inside my apartment where Kyra had to teach me how to do laundry and use a vacuum cleaner.

Devon looks me up and down. “Hey, I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. I don’t need staff.”

“Where’s your family?”

“What family?” I say. “My mother is the only relative I know of, and she lives in Australia.”

“You don’t have grandparents?”

“I barely know my mother,” I say. “She moved away when I turned sixteen. We talk, like, maybe twice a month? But you know, I’m fine. Really.” I’ve already given him more information than I ever give anyone. As much as I like this turn of events, I also don’t trust it. Devon’s is a player, and I’m guessing this sweet, sensitive side he’s showing is an act. Deep down he’s mocking me, and now I’ve given him even more ammunition.

At least he doesn’t use it right away. “Well, I mean it,” he says. “You ever need anything, just ask. It’s cool.”

I nod and head for the locker room.

“Lizzie?” says Devon.

I pause and turn. He’s a silhouette now in the dark hall.

“Are you happy?”

“Sorry?” I say.

“Never mind. Forget I…yeah.” He waves dismissively and heads off in the opposite direction.

I resume my steps to the locker room. Once there, I find that my phone has a new message on it.

“No shooting tomorrow,” says the male voice. “We’ve had a meeting with the network and we’re going to rework the script, maybe alter the concept a little. I’ll call when I’ve got more news.”

Well, at least I don’t have to worry about staying up so long past my usual bedtime. I just have to worry about how I’m going to pay for gas and groceries this week.

My best friend, Zach, picks me up from the gym in his black Lexus. His blond hair is rumpled in a way that makes women want to run their fingers through it, and his blue eyes are kind. As always, the sight of him brings back a decade of memories: hanging out backstage at his concerts or mine, midnight phone calls of panic about contract changes or poor ratings, and giggling over repeated reports that we were a couple. I pretended to find the idea funny, at least.

I make a point of not looking right at him, but that doesn’t help me much. His personality’s pure kindness, and that shines through in the way he talks.

“You all right, Lizard?” he asks as I slide into the passenger’s seat.

“No.”

“Well aren’t you Little Miss Sunshine?” He chuckles.

“How was your day?”

“If the label tries to screw me over one more time, I’m gonna walk.”

He said this two rounds of negotiation ago, and one before that.

“I swear,” he goes on, “they told me that Logan and I could pick our own songs, but then they want final say even though we have six multi-platinum albums. Ben’s about to release another single, and we’ve got to get out there ourselves, but we can’t if they keep trying to rob us. They’re acting like us starting over without the band means we’re at square one, and I don’t think that’s right.”

I do, but I’m not going to say that out loud. His band, Triple Cross, dominated the pop charts for years, but they’ve broken up now and that era is over. Ben, the guy he’s complaining about, is a former band mate, who now has a strong solo career. Just because Triple Cross publicity worked for Ben doesn’t mean it’ll work for Zach and Logan (the other 2/3 of Triple Cross). I’m in the same boat. As Veronica Pryce, my albums went platinum. As Lizzie Warner, labels aren’t sure they even want to sign me.

“Okay, sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t dump on you.”

“You know it’s fine.”

He smiles at me, and I wait for him to turn away before I shut my eyes and try to ignore the ache in my chest. Once upon a time, we were meant to be.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Lizzie. Seriously. You’re the best.”

This car ride really needs to end now. I focus my attention on the reflections of streetlights sliding over the glass of my window and the pitch darkness beyond.

When we get back to my apartment building (Zach has a place here too), he rides with me up the elevator to my place, where we find Kyra seated in the living room, reading a textbook open on the coffee table. She looks up at him and smiles. He goes to flop down on the couch next to her. They cross their legs towards each other, and just like that, they’ve walled off their own little corner of the universe where they can gaze into each other’s eyes and laugh at each other’s jokes without interruption.

I force a smile as I walk past them, get my dinner, and then retreat to my room. I hope this doesn’t seem too sullen of me. I
am
happy those two are together because I know how much Zach loves Kyra. There’s also no one more deserving of a good relationship than my roommate. I just can’t always deal with being in the same room as them.