Below Unforgiven (5 page)

Her little jaw stiffened, and she scowled deeply. “Three days, two nights.”

“And costumes. I don’t expect you to have gowns lining your closet for this occasion.”

“Costumes?” She mocked. I shrugged.

“This is a job. I’m trying to be professional here. I’m not handing over my credit card and offering you a new wardrobe. Just costumes to fit the part. Include that in your calculation.”

Her full lips twisted into an irritated pout, but then she resumed her animated thinking.

Finally, she lowered her lashes, meeting my eyes. “Two hundred dollars.”

I froze.

Don’t speak. Think.

What did the court-mandated anger management counselor say?

Filter. Filter. Filter.

“Two hundred.” I clarified.

She reached for her ponytail, fiddling with the long, auburn strands at her collarbone. I wondered how thick her hair was. It had to be past her waist, given the length of her ponytail-

“Yes.” She answered me, jolting me out of my fixated stare.

“No. That’s not enough. The gown alone will cost over two hundred.” I rubbed my chin, pretending to consider. I knew that it didn’t matter what amount she threw at me, I’d cover it. I was balls deep in this scenario now, and there was no way I was letting her go, now that she was interested. “One thousand for clothe-costumes. And two grand for the weekend.”

Her mouth fell open. After endless minutes of silence, she finally spoke. Her voice cracked adorably. “But… he paid her three thousand-for an entire
week
.”

Who…? I finally realized that she was referring to Richard Gere.

I shrugged. “That was over twenty years ago. Inflation, Vivian.”

She took a brave step toward me. I followed the strap of her tank top, unable to pull my eyes away from the gap between the material and soft dip in her shoulder. Her skin was flawless, creamy, like milk and honey, not broiled like most of the LA wannabe actresses flooding in and out of my office every day.

Her voice drew my attention. How long was she talking while I stared at her shoulder? “But she was sleeping with him, Keaton.”

My name… on her lips. Hot.
Focus
. Exhaling slowly, I tried my damndest to force blood back to my brain. A couple hours back in this town, and I was reverting to sex-crazed high-school bullshit.
I’m twenty-six goddamn years old.
“I’m not propositioning you for sex. That is immoral, and illegal, and I have more respect for you than that. Are we clear?”

She nodded quickly, and I noted her eager response to my authoritative tone. This was the same attitude I used with reluctant actors and actresses, so I went with it.

“If you agree, then we’ll go get you a dress in the morning, as well as clothes for the dinner and the Sunday brunch. I’ll fill you in on my family, and make arrangements for another hotel room. Dinner, wedding, brunch. That’s it. Three grand-including clothing.”

While her wheels turned, I felt a twinge of guilt for a reason that I couldn’t quite place. Did I want to fuck her? Of course. Was I going to? Hell no. Robin was right-she
was
different-innocent- maybe even a virgin. There was no way I wanted that kind of responsibility-nor could I
handle
that kind of responsibility at this point in my life.

She finally took a deep breath, lifting her chin and meeting my eyes.

“Yes.”

“Yes?” I almost couldn’t believe the word came from her mouth.

Her smile turned polite, and she held out her hand. “
Yes,
Keaton.”

Those two words combined, coming from her perfect lips, did me in. I nearly forgot how young she was, or how fucked up I was, or the fact that’d I’d only known her for an hour of our lifetimes. I wanted her mouth on mine.

And I was sure that I was going to pay for it.

She extended her hand further to shake, and as she did, the crack of fireworks from behind her jolted her forward, right into my arms. I caught her, grinning as the amateur explosion of color over our heads lit her eyes with diamonds.

“Well, that’s one hell of a yes,” I mused, setting her back on her feet and reaching for her handshake.

The Help

What am I
doing
?

I tossed and turned on my pop-up trundle bed, finally growling and staring at the ceiling of the finished-basement-dash-my-apartment.

When Keaton told me that he was going to wait for me, I was completely expecting him to ask me out. During the entire pizza delivery, I practiced lines in the car. “No, I can’t date a married man.” Then I thought about his dimple, and changed my line to, “It wouldn’t be
right
to date a married man.” (Because it wouldn’t be right, but it wasn’t completely off the table.) And then I resolutely remembered that I was trying to be a better version of Vivian Hale, and he would just be a (sexy) distraction from my focus: make enough money to move out, get a place of my own…

And pay Matthew back.

My grandmother had already been in bed when I pulled into the driveway. Spreading the quilt over her shoulders, I gently took the book from her hands and set it on her night stand.

When she’d invited me to live with her in June, I’d shown up at her door in tears. She picked me up in pieces, slowly helping me put myself back together.

I pushed my thoughts of home away, focusing on the present.

On Keaton,
not
Matthew.

When Keaton asked to pay me to be his escort for the weekend, I had never been more insulted in my entire life.

Of course.
Why would Robin’s sexy, mysterious brother happen into town and sweep me off my feet? This was real life. I slapped him, hard, and though it wasn’t the first time I’d slapped a guy, it was the first time he really deserved it. Vivien Leigh would have been proud.

But, Vivian Hale wasn’t that proud. In fact, it only took me minutes of listening to his woe-as-me, I’m a poor privileged pussy spiel before I realized that he was talking about three grand.

Three thousand dollars, in one weekend.

Okay, Vivian, you’ve dealt with stranger things, right?
Right.
You agreed to this.
This is a job. An acting job.
Experience
.

And an assload of money.

Groaning, I reached for my phone, touching my Google app. Why did I feel so…
icky…
about this? He said no sex. NO SEX.

Typing ‘Keaton Thorne,’ I hit search and waited.

Nothing. I scrolled until the word ‘director’ caught my eye, and touched the article, waiting for the 3G network to catch up with my impatience.

Widening my eyes, I sat up, covering my mouth with my free hand as I scanned the article.

Director Keaton Thane arrested in domestic dispute involving a deadly weapon early this morning in the Pacific Palisades. Updates to follow.

What the…?

Keaton Thane. Keaton Thane…

Why does that name sound familiar? I jumped back to the search box and Googled ‘Keaton Thane.’

Holy shit.

Keaton. My Keaton. Well, not
my
Keaton, but the Keaton that I’d met five hours ago, and the Keaton I’d just agreed to spend my entire weekend with for three thousand dollars.

He wasn’t just
a
director; he was
the
director Keaton Thane. A year ago, he’d become the youngest director in history to win an Academy Award for some documentary, and now was rumored to direct the blockbuster
Tonic
, starring Will Smith, next summer.

I scanned another article.

Dubbed “The Kid” behind the silver screen, Keaton Thane becomes the youngest director in history to win an Oscar.

And then, according to the article from February, he turned a gun on his wife and had to be dragged in handcuffs out of their Palisades mansion.

Shivering, I switched to Google images, dropping back to my pillow. Various photos of his face filled my iPhone.

Him, grinning in a tuxedo.

Directing on a movie set.

Posing at premiers with a tall, blonde,
stunning
woman.

His wife.

I sighed involuntarily. God, he was cute.
Overly
cute.

Uncomfortably cute.

What in the hell happened?

Why would he threaten his wife… at gunpoint?

When I moved to New Florence in June, I met Robin on my first day in town. I’d wandered into Valley Video looking for a movie to disappear into, and she was trying to clean the shelves and check out a handful of customers (probably the most I’d ever seen in the store since.) I’d asked if I could help, and she shoved the Windex and paper towels my way, hurrying to the register without a word.

“You’re Mrs. Hale’s granddaughter. All grown up,” she finally said after the last customer left the trailer.

“I just moved here… I’m looking for a job,” I countered awkwardly, unsure of how to take her. Her short, black pixie cut and multiple piercings and tattoos gave me a fuck-off vibe, but her smile was instantly friendly.

“Well, you’re hired. And you’re my new best friend.” She declared, thrusting a stack of DVDs my way. “May as well jump right in. I like your grandma. She and my mom are good friends.”

And just like that, I was employed (from way under the table)
and
had made a friend. The small town was actually a valley, and Robin lived in a big, Victorian house at the top of the hill with her mom and brother. Within the first hour of meeting her she was already telling me about her brother Luke’s wedding. She was older than me, twenty-three, and Luke was twenty-one.

“I have an older brother, Keaton, but he took off years ago. After my grandpa died.”

I didn’t ask about their father; I had no idea if he was still living, but I knew he was not part of their family now. Robin had described her older brother as hot-headed with a bad temper, but she loved him and understood his reasons (whatever they were, she didn’t tell me.) She also said he was the best looking of them all, with the conceitedness to show for it.

When I finally met Luke, I couldn’t imagine that this mystery-older-brother could be any better looking. Luke Thorne had their mother’s brown hair and hazel eyes, and kind of reminded me of a younger Tatum Channing.

Madeline, his fiancé, was nice enough, but couldn’t wait to get out of the tiny video store where Luke had dragged her in to meet me. I had the feeling that she had no interest in sticking around New Florence for any longer than necessary. They planned to move to Chicago after the wedding, where Madeline could open her own restaurant (with Luke’s inheritance, Robin added with a grunt.)

Tempted to text Robin, I glanced at the time. 1 AM.
She’s sleeping, stop obsessing, go to sleep!

Shoving my phone under my pillow, I spread my hair away from my neck and forced my eyes to close.

My phone chimed beneath my ear. Reaching for it, I squinted at the unfamiliar number.

My heart hollowed in my chest.

Hey, Mary Poppins, do you think I’m an asshole?

It was him.

How did he get my number?

You gave it to him, you idiot!

I chewed on the inside of my cheek, trying to decide how to respond.

Finally, I defaulted to honest.

Undecided
.
I’m reading about you on the internet.

His text slid through immediately.

Are you considering submitting your resignation?

I smirked at his choice of words.

Undecided. Why didn’t you tell me you are Keaton Thane? OR that you were arrested?

Waiting, I shook my leg back and forth until the blanket slid to the floor. With no air conditioning in the house, the dehumidifier did little to curb the moisture in the air. My skin was damp, and my nerves were eating my stomach in half.

Finally, his text came through as I was on the second ‘L’ of my
HELLO??
text.

I’ll elaborate tomorrow. Goodnight, Vivian.

So formal.

Goodnight.

I hit ‘send,’ and then added another quick
See you tomorrow.

His text popped up right away.

Go to sleep. Stop texting.

I narrowed my eyes, exasperated.

Then stop texting me!

When he did, I sighed, flipping back to Google to search for more. Landing on a picture of him smiling at an awards ceremony, I squinted, trying to see what he was holding. Finally, I pulled my thumb and forefinger apart on the screen to zoom.

It was an Oscar.

Somehow I managed to sleep. A little. I dreamed that Keaton was there, in my gram’s basement, directing a porn starring Magic Mike Gross-out Grady. Not Tatum Channing. Of course not, why would I get to dream about Tatum Channing? Pffff.

Keaton’s smooth, baritone voice coaxed a reluctant smile to my lips.

“So she does have another facial expression other than
scowl
.”

My eyes popped open, and I shrieked.

Jerking away from him, I nearly toppled off of the trundle bed. His face was inches from mine. He was kneeling at my side, his Cheshire smile spread from ear to ear.

“What are you
doing?
” I slapped for the blankets, sheets, anything to cover myself, but I knew I was decent enough in a cami and boxers.

“You know, the sad thing is, this whole fairy tale craze is going to be dead and buried by the time anyone important sees this face.
Snow White and the Huntsman
,
Once Upon a Time
, all that shit will fizzle and burn. Then back to superheroes, or natural disasters, or epic historical biographies. And all along, here was the perfect Snow White, sleeping in her grandma’s basement.”

I half listened to his semi-passionate, semi-fanatical rant, wondering if he was clinically insane. “Did Gram let you come down here?” I demanded.