Unscripted (40 page)

“You have a freakin’
trailer
for that sort of thing, Alex. Use it!”

“It just kind of happened!”

“Everything ‘just kind of happens’ to you, Alex! Every damned day!”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You didn’t! Don’t worry about that!”

“I don’t care about Ashley. I only care about you—”

“Oh,
do not
—”

“But Faith, I lo—”

“So help me, if you say anything,
anything
to the effect of ‘But Faith, I love you,’ and/or ‘It’s always been you,’ and/or ‘You’ve always had my heart,’ I will
flatten
you.”

And my eyes were drawn to his strong, tanned hands, where he was frantically spinning his silver ring around his index finger with his thumb.

“It’s true, though! I do! I always have! I was so stoked that you came to IECC—I thought you were there to get me back. I mean, you and me, not just get me back on the show. I thought you wanted to try again. I know I blew it before, when we . . . when I . . . but this time I thought we could—”

“Oh, of course. You love me so much you had to express your devotion by screwing Ashley on my desk. That makes perfect sense.”

I pushed past him. A cheap plastic crown was lying on my chair. The crew had given it to me for my birthday last year. I had worn it the whole day; after that, it had hung on a nail on the wall of my improvised office. When I returned to work, I brought it back and proudly hung it up again. Now one of the points was broken and another bent, some of the plastic “jewels” scattered on the floor. I didn’t want to know what Alex and Ashley had done with it in the past few minutes. Really I didn’t.

“. . . Faith?”

I kept staring at the crown. “Alex.”

“Do you hear what I’m saying?”

“Oh, I hear you all right,” I said quietly. “I hear you loud and clear.”

Wow. Here was Alex, man of my dreams, saying what I always wanted him to say to me—that he wanted me. Alex—the guy I had dreamed about, and daydreamed about, ten thousand times, if once, for more than two years. He was right there, inches from me, looking at me so earnestly, so hopefully. And the longer I hesitated, the closer he got, getting more and more confident.

“So?” he asked eagerly. “Do you think we can . . . ?”

I looked at him. Really looked at him. His glossy dark hair, his earnest blue-gray eyes, his sculpted body. And what I saw was . . . nothing I’d ever want in this lifetime.

I picked up the damaged crown and walked away, returned it to its place on the wall. “No,” I said, quite calmly.

He didn’t expected
that
. “Wh –what?”

“I said no. We can’t.”

“Faith, come on!”

I turned to face him, crossed my arms. “Let’s review, Alex. You say you have feelings for me, only moments after your dick was inches from another girl’s . . .
whatever
. And we really don’t know where that girl’s
whatever
has been, but that’s not the issue. You don’t love me. You just like to use me. You knew I had a crush on you the whole time you were on the show before, and you took advantage of that. You only came on to me when you wanted something—just like right now.”

“No, that’s not—” he protested.

“That’s
exactly
what you’re doing,” I snapped. “Face it, Alex, you’re a man-ho. There’s really no other word for it. And all those games you played with me—I thought I was hurt, but it was nothing. What really pisses me off is what you did to Kaylie. She really cared about you. She might have even
loved
you. God knows why, but there it is. And you walked away from her without a second thought. After that . . . I lost any respect I might have had for you. You can’t bowl me over with your charm, you can’t con me.Just . . . get out of my office.”

He started to speak again, but seared by my death glare, he wisely abandoned the idea. He crossed to the door, straightening the tight T-shirt that was twisted awkwardly around his chiseled torso, then turned back to me in the doorway.

“I’m sorry, Faith.” And I could tell he meant it. I just couldn’t figure out if he was sorry that he’d used me, sorry that he’d befouled my desk, sorry that he’d blown his chance to keep me under his thumb, or sorry that I wasn’t buying what he was selling anymore.

I nodded. “So am I, Alex.” And I meant it too.

When he was gone, I deflated. I dropped into my desk chair, putting my elbows on my desk and my head in my hands. After a moment I looked up. At least my laptop was still intact, still open the way I’d left it earlier. Instead of the script I had been working on, however, I found a browser window open—to Mrs. McNulty’s blog. Dear God, was this thing going to haunt me for the rest of my life? And why was it on my laptop? I hadn’t put it there.

Then I looked closer—and I knew I didn’t need to get in touch with Sean after all.

Because there was a new photo, front and center, the post time-stamped half an hour before. A shirtless Alex, in
my
desk chair, feet up on my desk. Wearing my plastic crown. The flash of a cell phone camera flaring behind him, reflected in the small mirror that hung on my back wall. And almost, but not entirely, obscured by the flash flare . . . ? Of course.

“She is
so
fired,” I murmured.

* * *

I didn’t usually get any pleasure out of kicking anyone to the curb—heck, I couldn’t recall the last time I
had
fired anyone; I always preferred to offer them a second chance to redeem themselves instead. But this time? No second chances for Ashley. Lots of pleasure. Oh yeah.

Jaya and I watched Ashley’s walk of shame in silence. When she was gone, I murmured, “Well, that was satisfying. Sorry you lost your assistant, though.”

“I’m not crying. What in the
world
was her excuse?”

“I couldn’t make it out,” I admitted. “I think she thought she was helping build hype or something.”

“Did Alex know?”

“That she was Mrs. McNulty? Nah. He probably just figured having his picture taken was foreplay, not that it was going to end up online. Although, if he did know, I don’t think he’d have cared.” I sighed. “All the same, I could kill him, I swear. I really could.”

“Understandable. He broke your heart. And possibly your desk.”

Shaking my head, I said, “Nope. My heart is intact. And my desk will be fine, once I disinfect it. It’s just . . . everything he does. Every damned day.” Then I had a thought. “Gotta make a phone call. You mind?” Jaya squeezed my arm as she walked away; I pulled out my cell and stepped outside into the brilliant sunshine, down the short flight of concrete steps to the pavement. When Mason answered, I leaned against the metal railing and said warmly, “Hey, it’s me. You busy?”

“For you, I’m always free. What’s going on?”

“I’ve got a proposition for you.”

“I’m in.”

“Filthy mind. What if it’s not that kind of proposition?”

“I’m still in.”

“Wait till I tell you what it is.”

“Well, if you want to take the long way around, fine. But just so you know? I’ll say yes at the end anyway.”

God, this man made me happy. “All right then, here it is: Come for the holidays. Spend them with me.”

“Yes.”

“I’m not done yet. If Jamie’s still around, we’ll leave my place to him and hide out at my mom and stepfather’s beach house in Malibu. They’ll be in Mexico.”

“Yes.”

“I’m not done yet. Peace and quiet, walks on the beach, sound of the surf . . .”

“Yes.”

“Will you let me sell it, please?”

“No. I already said yes.”

“Okay. One more thing. I also need you to help me commit a murder.”

“Yes, of cour—wait. What?”

Chapter 24

The good news: the holidays were as idyllic as I promised Mason they would be. Holing up together for a couple of weeks was very therapeutic. Mason needed time to mourn the loss of his theater department, which closed at the end of the semester, two weeks before Christmas. I needed time away from the frantic pace of shooting the spring episodes of
Modern Women,
and Mason helped me with the last few scripts I still had to write. When we weren’t busy doing . . . other things. And a few of them were even walks on the beach.

After the holidays, though, I found myself alone. Mason went back to Moreno Valley to put his house up for sale. My mother and stepfather were planning on staying in Mexico for several more weeks. Jamie left for Japan, so he was well and truly out of my house for good. And Jaya’s casual hookup with Taco Truck Tito seemed to be getting more serious; I didn’t see much of her outside of work.

So that left me with . . . work. And while there had been a time that I wouldn’t have thought twice about focusing on nothing but the show, now it wasn’t enough—not by a long shot. It was weird, disconcerting. I had to acknowledge that I was different somehow. It was dawning on me that the show was just a show; there was no evidence that it loved you back.

Well, except for ratings, of course. And ours were through the roof. “The Return of David” worked just as Jaya and I had intended. Our first episode featuring David aired during November sweeps, as planned, and—strangely enough, thanks in part to Mrs. McNulty/Ashley’s teasers—was an all-time ratings blockbuster. We gave fans what they wanted—lots of David and Sabrina, with a tearjerker of a reunion and all sorts of intrigue. That kept the viewers coming back week after week, until we were at the top of the EWW heap again.

The only trouble was the effect it had on Alex. Although he started out on his best behavior, it didn’t last, and it was dawning on me that we were going to end up reliving the end of the second season all over again.

* * *

Back then, Alex realized that he, well, had the show by the balls because he was the big draw for viewers, and he started throwing his weight around. His surliness was compounded by the fact that he was so put out I wasn’t caving to his “charms” that he took it out on me and the rest of the cast.

After our little incident at his apartment, Alex started raising hell on the set, disrupting our schedule and basically acting like a jerk. One day he was shooting a scene with three of the other actors, and out of the blue he decided he didn’t like the way Larry fed him a line. Larry had been in the business for more years than Alex has been alive, but all of a sudden Alex thought the older man needed some educating.

“I
told
you,” Alex spouted petulantly, slamming some props around, which made Hector, our props master, flinch and reach out as if he could catch the vases and glasses, even though he was more than a dozen feet away, “wait till I come out of the pause before you answer me! I want a beat . . . beat . . . and
then
you. Got it?”

I wasn’t directing that episode, and it showed. Although Irina was a good director, she was too easygoing, and Alex was walking all over her. So I stepped in.

“Alex,” I barked from behind the cameras, “knock it off. Do it the way Irina wants it.”

“But I think—”

“I don’t care what you think! We’re behind schedule, and we need to knock this scene out and move on. So do it the way Irina said.”

He slammed a few more props around, and I thought he was going to finish his tantrum and then carry on with the scene, like he usually did. Instead, he marched toward me. Suddenly his face was inches from mine, the muscles standing out in his neck like ropes, his heavily made-up face exaggerating his furious features. I pulled my head back but stood my ground.

“Alex, I said—”

“I don’t care what you said! You’re a two-bit producer on a two-bit show on a half-assed network. Why should I listen to you? I should be working for somebody like your mother instead. Now
she
was a producer.”

“Alex, you’re really pushing it.”

“Did you know I got a movie offer, Faith? Lead role, in
Guns and ’Gars.
How about that?”

Ah, I’d heard about that movie. It had been generating some buzz around town recently. Top-drawer producers and director, purely indie—lots of grit and fast talking and macho weapons and grainy video, exactly what Alex dreamed of. No wonder he’d gotten cockier lately, if he was being courted by film. Even indies. Especially indies, he probably thought. But I wasn’t impressed.

“Congratulations, then,” was all I said, nice and neutral.

“I
so
want out of here to make that movie.”

I narrowed my eyes and hissed, “Oh
please
do a Caruso. I’m begging you.”

That tripped him up. Apparently Alex wasn’t acquainted with that pop culture tidbit, David Caruso’s name as shorthand for bailing after the first season of a TV show to make movies and then tanking. Hard.