Good for You (2 page)

Chapter 3

REID

“Wel , 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 intel igent 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 bril iant at it.

It must gal 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-ful carafe, stil warming.

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

“Haven’t seen her.”

“You’l need to cal 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 cal ed the service. They’l be here in ten minutes.”

“Oh.” Scowling, his mouth snaps closed. “Wel , 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 pul away, it occurs to me that this car wil be fucking conspicuous in the neighborhood where I’l be for the next month. If I took a regular taxi it would only be marginal y 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 al the stupidest shit I’ve ever read. I attribute this new perception to Emma, my costar in
School
Pride
. She told me last fal she’d rather do serious films than movies that have immediate blockbuster potential.

Why her viewpoint rubbed off on me at al , 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 fal 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 real y 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 kil 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 partial y-completed house, which is literal y steps from the road—just like al 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 normal y 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’l be here by 2:45.”

Activity around the house has come to a standstil , 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 physical y.

The process takes me ten.

She’s wearing an oversized, faded t-shirt bearing the M.A.D.D. logo. Unintentional? Doubt it. I can’t tel 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 tel s me she’s hiding inadequacies, not assets.

Her shorts are so far out of style that I’m not sure they were ever
i n
style. Sprinkled with flecks of paint, her construction boots are worn and scuffed. Stil , she manages to pul 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 usual y wears something—a thick-banded watch, maybe. I don’t know a single girl who goes outside without a mil ion SPF

sunblock.

Hair—generic brown and pul ed back from her face into a ponytail. Probably goes wel 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 light 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.

Final y, her mouth—another oddity, like her legs—her lips are perfect and ful , 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, stil 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 swal ow me.

Legs, lips, voice. If one of these proves too appealing to ignore, a few veiled insults wil give her self-esteem enough of a hit to back off, though it seldom chases them off completely. Girls are irrational y 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 hel 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 wil 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 wil 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. Usual y 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 al , 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 fol owing me inside, I tel 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’l be my problem for the entire three and a half weeks before I leave for Ecuador.

As we pass through the smal house, my fel ow 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 wal s, 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 sensual y attractive that I should add every girl on whom he’l turn his attention to my prayer list, because they’re going to need al 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 wal s and ceiling of which are unfinished. I texturized and primed last week. Carpet hasn’t been instal ed, so at least I don’t have to worry about him ruining the floor. “I’l 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.

Chapter 4

REID

“So, do you have a name—or do I just cal you boss?” Introductions: Basic Etiquette 101. The tips of her ears turn bright pink, but she otherwise doesn’t blush.

“I’m sorry.” She steps towards me, offering her hand. “I’m Dori.”

I take her hand and give her one firm shake, annoyed that the combination of her pitch-perfect voice and the touch of her hand are like a tiny electric shock. “Cal me Reid. Only my subordinates cal me Mr. Alexander.” Comprehending me instantly, she blinks and her ears turn an even darker shade of pink, and I decide that this month may prove more entertaining than I’d thought. Any direct hits wil come with a visible signal. I’l bet she wears her hair pul ed back every day, too.

She clears her throat and indicates the pile of stuff in the middle of the room, clustered around a ladder. “Okay, then,
Reid
, here’s the paint we’l be using, and the rol ers, brushes, etcetera. Have you painted before?” Is she serious? “Not
rooms
.”

She doesn’t miss a beat. “Then I guess you’l be learning a new skil .” Pul ing a smal metal instrument from her pocket, she squats next to the paint cans. I’m trying not to focus on the line of muscle flexing from the top of her boot to where it disappears at the hem of her shorts.

“I doubt I’l feel the need to paint the wal s at my place any time soon,” I say, scoffing at the notion of wasting my time doing any form of manual labor when I could pay some il egal immigrant almost nothing to do it.

She pries the lid off of a paint can, ignoring my comment and smiling at the sky blue inside. Without glancing up, she sets the lid aside. “What if you accept a film role where you need to act like you can paint, but you don’t know how? I can make you look like an expert by the end of the week.” My estimation of her ability to manipulate goes up several notches. She’s downright dangerous.

So she’s going to make me an “expert” at painting? How hard can it be?

***

I’m rol ing paint on the final bit of the last wal , biceps and delts burning (at least I won’t have to worry about deteriorating muscle tone while I’m here), while Dori is on the ladder “cutting in” with a brush—painting the wal space between the ceiling and the spot where the rol er can’t go without hitting the ceiling. Which I learned the hard way.

The windows are open to save us from being asphyxiated by paint fumes, but there’s no breeze to speak of and summer is gearing up to be a bitch. This would be a perfect day to be at the beach. Or alternatively, pretty much anywhere else.

“It’s fucking hot in here.” I set the rol er in the tray and examining my hands, which are splattered in blue. There’s blue on my nails, under my nails, speckling my forearms and the yel ow Prada t-shirt that, luckily, isn’t a favorite.

Since the shirt’s already streaked and spattered with blue paint, a few more smears from my fingers won’t matter.

I pul the shirt over my head and toss it next to a pile of drop-cloths after mopping my face with it. Dori is on her ladder, motionless and staring at me while a line of paint runs from the upturned brush down the handle and continues along her arm. When I cock an eyebrow at her and she snaps her attention back to the paintbrush in her hand, dropping it into the shal ow paint tray hooked to the ladder.

Grabbing a cloth, I climb onto the ladder behind her, take her wrist in my hand and stop the drip of paint with the cloth.

This seems to unsettle the shit out of her.

“This ladder is only built to hold
one
,” she says, taking the cloth from me.

Shrugging, I hop down. “You’re welcome.” Her legs, smooth and unblemished, are eye-level when my boots hit the ground. I resist the urge to run a finger over the soft spot behind her knee. She’d probably fal off the ladder… at which point I’d catch her… And then she’d start screaming.

Holy shit, man, cut it out
.

“Thank you.” Ears pink, she unhooks the tray and avoids looking at me.

I’ve been here half a day and I’ve schooled her in manners twice. That’s gotta sting. She’s backing down the ladder with the paintbrush and tray when I ask if we’re done with this room. Cocking her head to the side like she’s trying to figure out if I’m serious, she looks at me. “No…

we’re just taking a lunch break to give it time to dry so we can apply the second coat.”

“You’ve
got
to be kidding me,” I say. “We have to paint this entire room
again?
”

She clenches her jaw, but resettles herself with one breath. “Yes. You’l see why when we come back after lunch.” Her voice is al patience and fortitude.

I possess neither of those traits. “Fine.
Whatever
. I’ve got to be here for a month. Doesn’t matter if I paint the same damned wal fifty times.”

Her lips set in a line, she huffs a breath and glances at me and away. “Could you put your shirt back on, please?” I have to grin. “Why? Does it bother you that I’m shirtless?”

She rol s her eyes in a big exaggerated gesture, and I struggle not to laugh. “I don’t care if you want to strip naked.

But we have retired people helping out today… and some of them are of the ‘no-hats-indoors’ variety, so I doubt they’d be thril ed to see you at lunch sans shirt. But suit yourself.”

I grab the shirt off the floor and pul it on, fol owing her out of the room. “Strip naked, huh? I don’t know about that, Dori. We just met.” She doesn’t reply, but her ears go pink.

Score
.

*** *** ***

Dori

I can’t believe I just invited Reid Alexander to be naked in my presence. As if I didn’t know he wouldn’t take that sort of remark silently.

I was expecting to find him difficult to motivate and just as difficult to teach, but he listened (though he seemed bored out of his mind), and for the most part he fol owed my instructions. I had to let him try it his way first, because apparently he’s a learn-the-hard-way type. (Shocking.) He didn’t trust me about not getting too much paint on the rol er. Or rol ing in arches instead of straight lines on the first pass. Or not rol ing too near the ceiling.

In front of the first wal he painted, there are splotches of paint al over the floor. I had to point out several drippy globs he needed to back up and fix before they dried that way. And of course, he hit the white ceiling in two places and the baseboard in two more, trying to rol al the way to the crease. By the second wal , he’d improved, more so the third, and the last was nearly perfect. I was starting to relax until he took off his shirt.

I’ve managed to remain unaffected by male torsos for eighteen years, but good gol y, I’ve never been confronted with a torso like his. He’s like an ad for cologne or beachwear or gym equipment—al perfect skin stretched over flawlessly-toned muscle. Luckily, his arrogance is such a turnoff that I didn’t have any problem asking him to put his shirt back on.

Like the walk through the house this morning, conversations break off when Reid and I emerge into what wil be the back yard, once we lay sod. Twenty or so people sit on upturned buckets and folding lawn chairs scattered about the concrete patio, paper plates of tamales and tacos on their laps. Some workers wil be here every day—

notably the crew leaders like Roberta. Others vary day to day—col ege students, church groups, garden clubs or employees from area companies that support community service projects by giving them time off to volunteer.

I walk to the water spigot to wash my hands and Reid does the same, and then splashes water over his face and runs his wet hands through his hair as though everyone out here wasn’t watching him do it. Fol owing me to the card table where the food is laid out, he acts as though there’s nothing odd about a Hol ywood celebrity being handed a paper plate and pointed to the plastic utensils and the cooler holding bottled water.

I sit on a step, balancing my plate on my knees, and he sits next to me. Everyone is stil staring, though whispered conversations are resuming.

“So why are
you
here?” he asks. “I’m guessing you haven’t been arrested for drunken driving or gotten caught with a joint in your gym locker.”

“ Um ,
no
,” I say, once I’ve finished chewing. “I’m a regular.”

He peers at me, and I can’t decide if he’s puzzled or amused. “So you do this al the time. Hmm.”

“What?”

While he’s studying the other volunteers, appraising each one without any alteration in expression, I’m gazing at his profile, waiting for him to continue. He has the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen on a guy, and his now-damp hair, darker blond when wet, curls at the ends over his ear and at the nape, grazing the neck of his paint-smeared t-shirt.

“Nothing.” He shrugs. “I just wonder what else you have time to do, if you’re doing this al the time,” he adds, biting off half a taco. People like him never understand people like me. It’s like we come from different species.

“Wel , since I don’t make a habit of getting drunk, smoking pot, clubbing and sleeping with everything that moves, I have plenty of time for other activities.”
Ohmygosh
. I did
not
just say that.

He laughs softly, turning to face me as I scowl. His blue eyes are striking, framed by thick, dark lashes. “Let me guess—Monday is book club, Tuesday is family game night… Wednesday is Bible study, and Thursday you meet up with the sewing circle to make quilts for the elderly… Am I close?”

Without answering, I get up to go back inside. This isn’t the first time I’ve been ridiculed for what I am, but for some reason—maybe because it feels so incompatible with where we are—it’s more disheartening.

“Wait,” he says, and for some stupid reason I stop, expecting him to apologize. “When do you have time for the soup kitchen?”

He’s chuckling when I go inside without looking back.