Not in the Script (21 page)

“But still a lie.” There's something more important I want to know. “Did you really talk to Troy? I'm guessing he might be a … jealous, possessive creep?”

Emma bites her lips together, but doesn't look away. “With a very short temper,” she finally says. “I didn't see it at first—not at all. But then a couple of months into our relationship, he started acting all broody if I said anything more than hello to another guy.
Then that turned into accusations, and then after the beach bimbo stuff happened and I wouldn't take him back, it got … scary, if you want to know the truth.”

She eyes me as if she's trying to gauge my reaction. I wonder if she can tell my gut is twisted into a knot. “How scary?”

Emma takes a breath, exhales. “I need to keep this a secret, all right?” she says, and I offer a solemn nod. “The last week of filming, Troy lost control outside my trailer and wouldn't let go of me until he'd said every cruel thing he could think of—he actually left bruises on my arms. I finally broke away and took off in my car, but he followed me. And … long story short, it ended when Troy shattered my driver's-side window, with his fist.”

“He …
what
?” I don't know what I'd expected to hear. “Did he hurt you?”

Emma shakes her head. “I was okay. Better than he was. And I told everyone that someone shattered my window at the beach—apparently trying to break in to the car. But after the fight at Club 99, I threatened to make all of this public, and more, if Troy doesn't leave me alone. I wish I would have done it sooner. It felt great.”

My tension eases a bit. “What made you confront him now?”

“Kimmi, if you can believe it,” Emma says. “She told me I was pathetic for hiding under that table, and I thought, ‘Yeah, I
am
pathetic.' So I finally decided to stand up for myself.”

“Good.” I feel an urge to hug Emma—more like keep her safe or something—but decide I better hold off. “Thanks for trusting me. I won't tell anyone, I promise.”

“I didn't even tell Brett what I said to Troy,” Emma reveals with a smile. She then lifts the tabloid again. “This full-page photo
was taken of a brief hug I gave Brett when I saw that he hadn't been arrested. So I didn't go back to his ‘waiting arms' like the article says, and I never cried on his chest. I left the club, stayed with my aunt, and flew home the next morning. Since then, I've been on the phone with my mom and my publicist, trying to clean up the mess.” Emma sighs. “In summary, Jake, there is no
Bremma
—just a touchy-feely friend who risked a lot to kick someone's butt for me. Brett definitely has his faults, but I'm grateful for what he did.”

“Me too,” I reply. But why did Brett himself tell me they were “getting cozy” in that booth? I stand and help Emma off the floor. We leave through the front door and head toward the running path. “So, let me get this straight,” I go on. “As long as guys agree to your
just friends
clause, like me, you'll … cuddle with them?”

She laughs. “No! Brett only had his arm around me for a few seconds.”

“And his hands all over you too.
But
,” I say before she corrects me again, “I'm not the kind of guy who passes out affection like samples in a bakery. So if I ever act the way Brett does, you should know that it actually
means
something.”

Emma smiles, then whips her head in the opposite direction like she hadn't meant for me to see her reaction. Now I know for sure: she likes me.

We reach the paved trail and pick up our pace.

“I've already figured that out about you,” she replies. “But as far as hanging out goes, this tabloid crap with Brett makes everything more complicated.”

“Why? Brett shouldn't care if we're all just friends.”

“Brett isn't who I'm worried about,” Emma says. The rush of the river is loud, so we have to run only a foot apart to hear each other. “With the media saying I'm with him, imagine what would happen if I'm seen with
you
—out dancing or something.”

On Emma's side of the path, we're approaching a full-grown tarantula resting on a boulder. I try to calculate the odds of her: 1) screaming and jumping into my arms, or 2) never running with me again. I play it safe and distract her before she notices the spider. “Even if you
were
dating both of us,” I say, “it's normal to play the field, like everyone else our age.”

We pass the tarantula without incident, and Emma shakes her head. “
Normal
girls can date lots of guys at once, but not me. Tabloids can't make money on innocent stories. In their world, no one goes out just to have fun. There has to be a scandal involved.”

“But you can't cheat on someone if you're not even together,” I say. “And if you're so worried about that, why'd you just knock on my door?”

Emma grabs my shirt and jerks me to a stop. “Because …” She faces me and takes a moment to slow her breathing. “Maybe I like hanging out with you. So if you're still cool with that—and not dating, or
cuddling
, or anything in that category—then we just can't be seen together.”

I am, without a doubt, the biggest sucker on earth. “Okay. I'm in.”

I wonder how long it will take Emma to notice she hasn't let go of my shirt yet. In fact, both of her hands are now holding onto me. She drops them seconds later. “Good,” she replies as she glances down the running path, lit only by scattered landscape lights. “How about a race?”

“Seriously?” I ask. “You really think you have a chance?”

“Heck yeah. But I've gotta tie my shoe first.” She leans over for a sec, then shoots back up and takes off. “Or not!”

I start after her, but almost fall on my face. Emma untied both of my laces. It's pretty fair to say I'll be chasing her for a while.

Within minutes of leaving Club 99, I had called my publicist to tell her
almost
everything that happened—nothing about what I said to Troy. But even then, she kept saying, “We need your mother in on this.”

My impulse was to shout, “No way!” But I knew that “I'll tell her tomorrow morning” was as much as I could delay it. First, I'd wanted to see how the story unfolded on the gossip sites, which often hint at the direction the tabloids will take. And before ten that night, news about the fight was everywhere—and the bottom line? Brett and I are “in love.”

Unfortunately, Rachel saw the gossip site stuff pop up at the same time I did and immediately told her mom, who then sent a text to my own mother, who then called me at my aunt's house at midnight. She was crazy mad because I had not only put myself in a situation to make it even
look
like I was dating Brett and—just
slightly worse—incited a fight, but because I'd also committed the cardinal sin of calling my publicist first. As Mom reminded me, it's
her
job to discuss damage control with my publicist, not mine.

Mom calls all the shots.
She
gets to decide how stupid or innocent I come out looking. If I had another manager, I'd surely have more say in this. And I'm sick to death of my opinion being so irrelevant. I want to be more than just the
face
of Emma Taylor, Inc.

But how can I fire my manager without losing my mom too?

After a few weeks of lecturing me, she finally chills about the events in Los Angeles. And the tabloids continue to spin the story in a way that brings positive attention to
Coyote Hills
—making McGregor happy—so in a backward sort of way, Brett's plan to promote the show has been a huge success. And he's more than a little pleased with himself.

“All right, you two,” McGregor says, speaking to Brett and me on the library set. “I need some
steamy
chemistry in this shot. Your fans are expecting sparks, so let's see 'em!”

In a cast chair to the side of me, Kimmi laughs and whispers something to Jake. He then whispers something back, and I can only imagine what they're saying. Jake finished his last scene a while ago and is heading to New York on a red-eye flight later on, but he's had to stick around for a meeting we're having once we wrap.

If I can only make it through this last camera angle, we can get out of here. The crew is currently testing some rearranged lighting on the stand-ins.

“You ready for some more fun this weekend?” Brett asks me. McGregor suggested earlier this week that Kimmi and I go back to L.A. with Brett for a Dodgers game. “We'll be with an even bigger group this time. And no hand-to-hand combat, I promise.”

“You've also promised that your hands won't be all over
me
.”

“Right, but I've conveniently forgotten that,” he says. “Fair warning.”

“Last looks!” Tyler calls.

Within seconds Brett and I are being poked and prodded by vanity weapons. I have no idea how anyone in show business can possibly be arrogant when it takes a full squadron of hair and makeup artists to hide their flaws.

“First team, back to one!” Tyler says.

Brett and I return to our starting positions, and the stand-ins leave the set. I try to regain my focus, saying the first line in my head over and over. If I can get that out right, the rest usually flows with ease. But I'm doing some serious come-hither stuff in this scene with Brett, while Jake is sitting just twenty feet away.

Acting or not, it all feels awkward. And I can't stop asking myself why.

“I'll give you a million bucks if you wear that shirt this weekend,” Brett whispers, referring to the ultra-low V-neck I have on. I only roll my eyes at him. He pokes my stomach. “Just trying to get a sign of life from you. Any reaction at all.”

“I could break a few of your ribs,” I reply. “How's that?”

“Picture's up!” Tyler says.

“Picture's up!”

“Quiet on set!”

Tyler scans the set. “Rolling!”

“Sound speed!”

“Camera speeding!”

The boom mic is lowered to right above our heads, and a slate is held in front of me. “Scene four Delta, take one.”

The slate is clapped. “A mark.”

“B mark.”

“And … action!” McGregor says, and I summon my inner temptress.

For at least the tenth time, I circle the back of Brett's chair—all sultry-like—trailing a finger over his shoulder blades. “Bryce, if you study for that biology test any longer, Mr. Adams will think you cheated. You can't get
every
question right.” I push his books aside and sit on the library table in front of him. “Live a little. Come to the party.”

“Uh … maybe?” Brett says, sliding down in his chair and darting his eyes away to look at his rich-boy loafers instead of my legs. Costumes has me in
another
short skirt. “But you need to study for the test too. So just come to my house instead, and we'll, um, yeah … study.” He adds an uncomfortable sigh, squirming in his seat as I lean forward to weave my fingers through his hair. I have to fight back laughter every time we get to this part—Brett is so great at playing a good boy;
being
a good boy is a different story.

A few lines later, McGregor yells, “Cut! Cut! Brilliant! Let's go again, just like that.” He gives me a playful shake of his finger. “Naughty, naughty girl, that Eden is! She needs
someone
to buy her presents now that Daddy is broke. And Brett, way to play the loser, lad.”

“Going again. Back to one,” says Tyler.

We do this same shot three more times, then McGregor wraps filming for the week. “Now, first team, gather round,” he adds. “And anyone else can listen in if they'd like to. We're one big family.”

We all settle into our cast chairs—Jake's almost always ends up next to mine, and we're not the ones making the arrangement—and McGregor is joined by a woman in a gray pantsuit and a stack
of folders under one arm. “I'd like to introduce you to our publicist, Vicky,” McGregor says. “She has some exciting news.”