Chapter 3

Chapter 3

REID

“Well, this is promising. ” Dad walks across the kitchen, setting his attaché on the granite-topped buffet.

I don’t bother to reply. He’s been goading me like this since I was a kid. Took me a while to learn not to take the bait and let him prove how much more intelligent he is. My father gets paid to argue—and by the size of this house, the cut of his custom-made silk-blend suit and the cars in the garage, he’s brilliant at it.

It must gall the crap out of him that I do what I do and earn more money than he does. Of course, he has no idea how hard I work when I’m filming, but who cares. Let him think I do next to nothing. Just pisses him off more, which is fine with me.

“I even made coffee. ” I gesture to the half-full carafe, still warming.

He fills his travel mug and screws the lid on. “Is your mother up? ”

“Haven’t seen her. ”

“You’ll need to call a car to get to work, ” he reminds me, “since your license has been suspended for six months. ” He sounds way too satisfied about that.

“I thought you were gonna take me. ” I blink my baby blues at him. His mouth opens and no sound comes out as I fight for a straight face. “I’m joking, Dad—I already called the service. They’ll be here in ten minutes. ”

“Oh. ” Scowling, his mouth snaps closed. “Well, fine then. ”

I’m not sure if I should be amused or pissed that he’s so surprised.

***

When I hand the driver the sheet with the charity build-a-house address, he studies it before looking at me with a perplexed expression.

“Yeah, dude, it’s correct, ” I say, anticipating his question. “Just take me there, okay? ”

He opens the back door to the black Mercedes. “Yes, sir, Mr. Alexander. ” As we pull away, it occurs to me that this car will be fucking conspicuous in the neighborhood where I’ll be for the next month. If I took a regular taxi it would only be marginally better. To blend in, I’d need to hire a gang member in a pimped out Monte Carlo to drop me off.

On the drive, I read through some of the scripts George and I are considering for upcoming projects, but none of them motivate me to look beyond the first page. A year ago, I’d have been happy enough with several, but now I’m thinking they’re all the stupidest shit I’ve ever read. I attribute this new perception to Emma, my costar in School Pride. She told me last fall she’d rather do serious films than movies that have immediate blockbuster potential. Why her viewpoint rubbed off on me at all, I have no clue.

Emma is also the only girl I’ve bothered to pursue but not caught in years, and I screwed up any possible second chance by hooking up with other girls when she didn’t cave. I begged her for another shot, but the damage was done. By the time the cast met up for the premiere, she was with Graham, another costar. My longtime ex, Brooke, wanted him. She offered me a devil’s bargain: Brooke would seduce Graham, and Emma would fall right into my arms.

Graham didn’t go for it, but thanks to Brooke’s scheming, Emma thought he had. She was distraught. Fragile. I had her right where I wanted her, but I couldn’t do it. One of the few principles I have where girls are concerned: lying to get a girl in bed is cheating. If I cheat to win, I didn’t really win.

I got a little overly introspective after that. A short-lived state, luckily. I snapped out of it after my accident, when I had a few compulsory meetings with a court-appointed therapist who suggested that maybe I was trying to kill myself. I laughed in his face. I mean, there’s a difference between being suicidal and not giving a shit if you live or die. Right?

“Sir? ” the driver says. “We’re here… if you’re sure this is where you want to be dropped…”

Outside the dark tinted glass lies a sea of generic bungalows—paint fading, bars on windows and doors, each house separated by a few feet from the next one and surrounded by limp, untended palm trees amidst otherwise sparse vegetation. I stare at the partially-completed house, which is literally steps from the road—just like all the others. A house number sloppily painted onto a piece of raw plywood leaning against the front matches the number on the court info.

“Yeah, this is it. Be here at or before three to pick me up. I don’t want to wait, for obvious reasons. ” I normally wouldn’t be caught dead driving through this neighborhood, let alone helping to build yet another piece-of-crap house. This sucks ass.

“Yes, sir, I’ll be here by 2: 45. ”

Activity around the house has come to a standstill, because everyone is staring at the guy exiting a chauffeured Mercedes in the gang-infested neighborhood. Man, I seriously should have thought about arriving in some other mode of transportation.

As I walk up the unfinished pathway, a girl comes out to greet me… although greet is generous. She’s glaring as she walks towards me, her brows drawn together in an expression I go to concerted efforts to avoid making, even when I’m pissed.

I have about twenty seconds to sum her up physically. The process takes me ten.

She’s wearing an oversized, faded t-shirt bearing the MADD logo. Unintentional? Doubt it. I can’t tell breast size or shape under that thing; ditto whether or not she has a waist. In my experience, if a girl has either, she’s going to dress to at least hint at the fact. Her tent of a t-shirt tells me she’s hiding inadequacies, not assets.

Her shorts are so far out of style that I’m not sure they were ever in style. Sprinkled with flecks of paint, her construction boots are worn and scuffed. Still, she manages to pull off this part of the manual laborer look because her legs are the only thing remotely hot about her. Her calves are perfectly shaped, strong and muscled. Most of the girls I know—actresses, society girls—want long, thin legs. But legs like hers are what I go for when I’m feeling particular.

She’s tan wherever I see skin. Not a Rodeo Drive sunless tan, either—the real thing. I know this because there’s a pale strip of skin on one wrist where she usually wears something—a thick-banded watch, maybe. I don’t know a single girl who goes outside without a million SPF sunblock.

Hair—generic brown and pulled back from her face into a ponytail. Probably goes well past her shoulders when down. Assuming she ever wears it down.

Face—predictably, no makeup, not even a swipe of blush or lip gloss. Dark, dark eyes. A smattering of freckles across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose—the girls I know would have had those burned off or bleached out or whatever they do to remove freckles years ago. Finally, her mouth—another oddity, like her legs—her lips are perfect and full, even set into a harsh line like they are now.

I stuff both hands into the front pockets of my jeans, stop a few feet from the street and wait.

“Mr. Alexander, I assume? ” she says, still striding forward. I nod, adding something further to the short list of her attractive features: her voice. It makes me want to hear her sing, even though her inflection says she wishes the ground would swallow me.

Legs, lips, voice. If one of these proves too appealing to ignore, a few veiled insults will give her self-esteem enough of a hit to back off, though it seldom chases them off completely. Girls are irrationally attracted to assholes. I don’t intend to be cruel, but I’m not hooking up with some tiresome, bleeding-heart do-gooder. I just want to do my time and get the hell out.

*** *** ***

Dori

       A Mercedes? Really? I am so not looking forward to this.

       The moment his highness arrived was easy enough to determine since everyone just flat-out stopped what they were doing to gawk at the big celebrity and his ostentatious car. One minute the house hummed with the sound of people talking, laughing and working side-by-side, and the next there was silence punctuated by hissed undertones, not a hammer or paintbrush moving. I fail to see how this sort of daily interruption will be beneficial to the project… but no one asked me.

       He’s dressed appropriately—jeans, t-shirt, work boots—but I get the feeling those jeans were more expensive than the nicest outfit I own. Possibly ditto the t-shirt, which has some sort of insignia I don’t recognize. I’m guessing it isn’t a brand found at Target.

       When I walked out to meet him, he gave me a careless once-over—I should have expected as much—and dismissed whatever he saw. Most girls might be offended, or at least displeased, but I’m grateful. I don’t want Reid Alexander’s interest. If I had my druthers, I’d love for him to perform his community service elsewhere, but the judge wanted him to assist in building the home for the family he displaced, and I can’t argue with that logic.

       Cramming his hands into his pockets, he watched me indifferently, as though he couldn’t care less about anything that has happened or will happen. Out of nowhere an absurd feeling of inconsolable grief washed over me. Like nothing could be more tragic than this boy standing in front of me. Ridiculous.

       “Mr. Alexander, I assume? ” I said, and he nodded shortly. I turned before he could see what I was thinking. When it comes to having a poker face—I don’t. Usually that’s not a problem, since lying is something I strive not to do because I just don’t see the point. But with someone like Reid Alexander, it would be unwise to let him sense any vulnerability where he’s concerned. I live in Los Angeles, after all, and while I might not run in his circle, or even within the same galaxy as his circle, I know his type: careless, spoiled and heedless of anyone’s needs outside his own. Even with that angel’s face, he cannot be trusted.

       I glance over my shoulder and he hasn’t moved. Without slowing, I say, “Come with me, please, ” and hope that he complies—because no one’s told me what I’m supposed to do if he doesn’t.

       Releasing a breath as I hear the crunch of gravel under his boots, indicating that he’s at least following me inside, I tell myself that I can put up with anything for a few weeks. I wanted to scream when Roberta told me that his community service agreement was for a month. Meaning he’ll be my problem for the entire three and a half weeks before I leave for Ecuador.

       As we pass through the small house, my fellow volunteers gape, star-struck. Even grown men stop what they’re doing, though the women are worse—straightening their clothes, patting hair into place—holy cow. You’d think they’ve never seen anything pretty before. That’s the first thing I must admit and get past—the sheer fact of how beautiful he is.

       I’ve seen the magazine covers, the posters on girlfriends’ bedroom walls, his likeness on backpacks of nine-year-olds who attend our church’s after-school program, for Pete’s sake. I knew he’d be handsome. The fact of the matter, though, is “handsome” doesn’t do him justice. Mom would term his hair dirty blond, and Dad would say it’s a little too long. His eyes are a dark blue I’d always assumed was photoshopped. He’s so sensually attractive that I should add every girl on whom he’ll turn his attention to my prayer list, because they’re going to need all the divine intervention they can get to resist him. I’m thankful that he dismissed me so quickly.

       “I was going to tile the bathroom shower today… but that’s a complicated procedure and you’d just end up watching me do it. So we’re going to paint the bedrooms instead. ” We arrive in the master bedroom, the walls and ceiling of which are unfinished. I texturized and primed last week. Carpet hasn’t been installed, so at least I don’t have to worry about him ruining the floor. “I’ll do the ceiling, because it’s more—”

       “Complicated? ” he interjects, regarding me with an amused look.

       I take a slow, deep breath. It’s going to be a long three and a half weeks.