738 Days: A Novel (33 page)

And hell, I’m eleven months sober, which is my longest stretch ever. I’m on the path to not screwing up, to finally getting my life and my career back together, and one of the long-held tenets of recovery is that you should avoid getting involved with someone, like the kind of involved that messes with your emotions, for at least a year. If it ends badly, you might find yourself retreating to damaging but comforting habits in a weak moment. Which would pretty much destroy everything I’ve worked so hard to rebuild.

But when it comes to keeping my emotions out of anything to do with Amanda, it might be too late to hit the brakes.

“Chase, are you okay?” Emily asks, interrupting my thoughts.

I glance up to find her studying me with a puzzled frown. I must look as fucking confused as I feel.

I resist the urge to snarl at her. “Yeah, why?” I ask as calmly as I can instead.

“Um, we’re here?” Emily gestures toward the window. And she’s right: the van has stopped at the security barricade. I can see my trailer in the distance.

“Oh, right, sorry.” I force a smile. “Just focused on the scene today.” A convenient excuse, but it would be better if that were actually the case. Yet another reason I need to lock this down and regain my focus.

Emily climbs out and waits outside my door to escort me.

Ron gives me a salute and a nod as I slide out of the van.

Despite my worries about coordinating everything this morning and my lapse of attention for however long in the van, I’m still early enough for Emily to lead me to my trailer first.

Her sudden stop and gasp are my first indications that something’s wrong.

I tense, glancing around, expecting … I’m not sure what. But I don’t see any obvious threat. At first.

“Oh my God.” Her hand covering her mouth, Emily races the final feet to my trailer steps and then stops to stare, which helps narrow down the cause for her reaction.

From a distance, it looks like a bunch of random scratches, but the closer I get, the pattern becomes more distinct.

On the door to my trailer, someone has scraped the word “no” over and over again in varying sizes. And then, in the dead center of the door,
AMANDA
is spelled out in uneven letters with a thick scratch through it. The gouge is deep enough that the metal is dented.

Elise. It has to be. She’s following up on her threats rumor, making her own evidence.

I feel a flash of irritation that she’s taken it this far and then a greater surge of relief that Amanda isn’t here to see it.

“I have to call Security,” Emily says, fumbling for the walkie-talkie on her belt. “Don’t go in.”

“It’s not necessary,” I say quickly. The last thing I need is for Security to decide the police should be involved. I step around Emily and tug at the door, confirming it’s still locked. “I don’t think anyone made it inside.”

But Emily frowns at me and continues her call over the walkie-talkie for Leon, who is apparently the security coordinator.

It doesn’t take long for Leon to appear. A bulky, balding guy in a black golf shirt and black pants, he radiates ex-cop in his eyes and the way he holds himself.

He takes a few pictures of the door and checks around the outside of the trailer, bending to look beneath. Then he gets the key from Emily, who’s hovering nearby, and confirms that the inside seems undisturbed.

“Anybody got something against you?” he asks, eyeing me in a way that makes me feel guiltier than I already am.

I rub the back of my neck. “Where do you want to start? Alphabetical or by date?”

He chuckles, but I was being serious. I’ve been through this before. Sera, my stalker, started this way, with weird little unrelated incidents that built to her breaking into my condo.

“We had some other minor vandalism on set last night, a break-in and a small fire in one of the other trailers,” he says.

I frown. Why the hell would Elise do that? Other than to cause general unease, which, if that’s her goal, I guess she’s succeeding.

“Could be someone pissed off some locals,” Leon continues. “Maybe somebody picked a fight in a bar?”

He looks at me, and humiliation flares in me. My reputation precedes me again.

“No,” I say flatly.

“Or it might just be some bored kids or lookie-loos, hoping to score some attention with all the extra press in town,” Leon says.

Also my fault because they’re here for Amanda and me. Max is going to kill me.

“We’re increasing nightly rounds, and we’ll be on the lookout,” he says. “Nothing to worry about for now.”

I hesitate. “You haven’t heard anything about specific threats, right?” I promised Amanda I would ask, and if it turns out not to be Elise, we need to know.

“You hear something?” he asks with a frown.

“Just something one of the reporters said this morning,” I say. “I … my friend…” God, I was so awkward at this. “Amanda Grace is here with me and—”

Leon nods. “I’m aware of her history. But I don’t know of anything pertaining to her.” He pauses. “Unless there’s something you want to tell me.”

“No,” I say quickly, probably too quickly, given the way his eyes narrow.

But he just nods again. “Let me know if you hear anything else.”

I wait until Leon leaves and Emily hurries away on one of her other duties before I step into my trailer and dig out my phone.

“Chase.” Elise answers on the first ring, the gloating self-satisfaction thick in her voice. And if I had any doubt before, I have my answer now.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I demand in a low voice.

“Getting some interesting messages lately?” she asks innocently.

“If you want to call spreading rumors about threats, carving up my trailer door—”

“I think that might be a slight exaggeration. A few words here and there in the right ears, some scratches in an already battered surface—”

“Starting fires on set, and leaving burned-up pictures outside my hotel room?” It occurs to me, then, that with her ringside seat for the whole Sera-the-stalker business, Elise has the perfect blueprint for creating a believable “dangerous” situation.

Her pause is perfect. A beat, just enough to give me cause to think that I might have surprised her. “What? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She gives a dismissive sniff.

She almost sounds believable. Goddamnit.

“Stop or I’m going to call the cops,” I say.

She laughs. “And tell them what, sweetie?”

“My former publicist and ex has gone psycho,” I snap.

“The media will love that, especially when they work out
when
I became your former publicist and your ex,” she says pointedly.

I flinch. She’s right. They’ll love it the way that sharks love discovering a wounded seal in the water overhead, an unexpected bounty from above.

My relationship with Elise is well documented if someone wants to dig into it. If there’s even a hint that Amanda and I got together (for real or for show) before Elise and I were done, I’m screwed. I’ll be the asshole who played Amanda Grace, the Miracle Girl, forever.

Amanda
. I close my eyes. I can all too easily imagine her at the moment of finding out, the color draining from her face, the fear and betrayal sparking hatred where there’s only warmth and trust now. Just picturing it opens a vast and sucking hole of loss in my chest.

“And if I’m called in for questioning, you know what I’m going to say,” Elise continues, her voice hard.

The reminder of my own complicity in this mess just pisses me off further. “I was never on board with this,” I say through clenched teeth. “I didn’t even know about it!”

“I told you there was a Plan B. It was your choice not to cooperate,” Elise says. “And really, maybe that was the smarter move. ‘Young love standing strong in the face of possible danger.’” She gives a theatrical flair to the words. “That will sell even better.”

“You are a bitch,” I snarl.

“An evil bitch,” she corrects. “And I know—you’ve said so before. Though usually in a slightly more complimentary tone.” She makes a tsking noise at me.

I’m tired suddenly. Elise will always find a way to win. My only shot is to convince her that she’s already crossed the finish line. “It’s enough,” I say. “Just stop. I don’t care if you’re punishing me, but Amanda doesn’t deserve it, okay?”

As soon as that last sentence is out of my mouth, I know it’s a mistake.

Elise sighs impatiently. “Amanda, Amanda. You’d think this girl was a saint instead of someone who knows how to spin her media.”

“Elise—” I say through gritted teeth.

“No one is going to get hurt, Chase. It’s all surface, no substance. Just enough to keep the public craving another hit.” A horn blares loudly in the background, and Elise makes a disgusted noise.

“Where are you?” I ask.

“You do not want to know,” she says dryly. “I don’t even want to know.” She clucks at me. “The things I do for you.”

Panic rises in me. “Don’t. Don’t do anything else. I mean it, Elise.”

But I’m talking to dead air. I pull my phone away from my ear to check, and yeah, the screen is flashing, “Call ended.”

Shit
.

I’m still standing there, trying to figure if there’s a point to calling back, when a firm knock sounds at my trailer door. Amanda.

I’m caught by a wave of relief and fear, all twisted together, and the strength of it takes my breath.

I waste a second wishing I could tell her everything. This has gotten so messed up. But that would mean losing her, and I’m not ready for that, even if I’m confused about everything else.

Then I push open the door, my heart beating faster with eagerness in spite of myself.

But it’s not Amanda.

“Oh. Hey,” I say, pulling back.

Karen raises her eyebrows. “Nice to see you, too.”

I wince. “Sorry, I was expecting…”

She cocks her head, listening with amused interest. The barbell piercing in her eyebrow gleams in the early morning light.

I shut my mouth. “Never mind,” I mutter.

Karen ascends the steps and pushes past me, her makeup case, which looks more like a tackle box, banging into my leg as she goes.

“Wow, your light sucks in here.” She yanks back the curtains, raising a cyclone of dust. Then she turns and gives me a skeptical up-and-down look. “And you’re not dressed.”

I scrub my hands over my face. Somehow this day, which started off so well, keeps spinning out of my control. “What are you doing here?” I ask.

“Some asshole broke into Hair and Makeup and trashed the place. Even tried to start a fire, I guess.” Karen holds up her case. “Good thing I take most of my shit back to the room with me.”

So that was the other vandalism Leon was talking about. I don’t understand why Elise would do that. Or why she would tell someone else to do that. There’s no way Elise does her own dirty work when it involves shimmying through broken windows or whatever and playing with matches.

And targeting the hair and makeup trailer, or even more specifically, Karen, makes no sense. Yeah, we used to be friends, but the general public wouldn’t know that, so there’d be no reason anyone would connect the incident to me or Amanda.

“Chase?” Karen snaps her fingers in front of my face in that familiar, annoying way I know from our years of early mornings.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll just…” I grab the wardrobe bag of Smitty-wear off the bathroom door and head into the bedroom to change.

“I probably shouldn’t be asking this, but are you okay? You seem off,” she calls to me over the rattle of tubes and jars as she sets up.

“I’m fine. Just a long morning.” I shuck my shirt and pull on Smitty’s dirty sleeveless undershirt.

“Drinking already?” she asks.

As I pull on the jeans with distinctly crusty patches—Amanda’s right; these clothes are disgusting—I stick my head out the bedroom doorway. “No,” I say.

“Recovering from drinking last night?” she continues blandly.

“I told you, no.” Leaving the hoodie on the bed, because today is a track mark day, I make my way to the kitchen area, where Karen’s case is open on the counter.

She nudges me toward the bench seat at the tiny table.

“Heard you went to a meeting last night,” she says, handing me the moisturizer. She’s watching me curiously, and I don’t like being a spectacle for her entertainment. Like the tightrope walker whose footing isn’t quite sure, and the spectators are caught between hoping he’ll make it and wanting a good show.

I glare at her. “It’s supposed to be anonymous for a reason.”

“Please.” She snorts. “In a town this size with a movie in production?”

When I’m done with the moisturizer, she tips my head up, casting a professional gaze over my face and the work to be done there.

“So where’s your girl?” she asks, amusement thick in her voice, as she picks up two tubes and mixes the colors together. “Scare her off already?”

“No. Not yet, I don’t think.” I hesitate, but the words circling in my head are brimming up, wanting to spill out. Even though we’re not currently on the best terms—or, frankly, any terms at all—Karen and I used to talk. A lot. There’s something confessional about being in the makeup chair, or bench, in this case.

“Amanda’s sister came to town unexpectedly,” I tell Karen. “So they’re still at the hotel.”

“Uh-huh.” She busies herself plugging in her airbrush system. It sounds and looks very much like a paint sprayer.

“So I’m not sure if she’s coming to set today. She may have to make sure her sister gets back home.”

“And you don’t like that,” Karen says, taking my chin in her hand to angle my face.

I jerk back to glare at her.

“Stay still.” She makes the adjustment again, and I stay put this time.

“It doesn’t matter if I like it or not,” I say. “She’s supposed to go home tomorrow anyway.” The airbrush gun thing whirs quietly in Karen’s hand, spraying a light layer of base makeup over my face, covering every flaw with artificial perfection.

I expect her to “uh-huh” at me again.

But instead, the gun stops and she steps back, eyeing me with a mix of pity and repressed amusement. “Wow, you’ve got it bad.”