I Think I Love You (6 page)

"I fell."

"Really? When Dean called to cancel your shoot this morning, he said you had an eye infection."

She shrugged. "He probably didn't want anyone to know what a klutz I am."

"Or maybe he didn't want anyone to know what an asshole he is."

Her instincts rallied to Dean's defense, but her body betrayed her. She dropped to her knees by the marble tub, slung her head over the side, and threw up. She'd been doing a lot of that lately.

Everett knelt beside her and held her hair—his prime concern—out of harm's way. His jacket that she wore, however, didn't fare so well.

"I'm sorry," she said, wiping her mouth.

"Don't worry about it. Can you sit?"

She nodded and allowed him to help her back into the chair. He lowered himself to the edge of the tab, then leaned his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands. "Mica, you're in trouble here, and I don't think you realize it."

Mica conjured up a strangled laugh. "I just celebrated too much last night."

"Mica, look at yourself—you're a sickly, skinny, hungover mess." He waved toward the piles of clutter on the vanity, the dirty clothes on the floor. "You don't meet your work obligations, you live in squalor, and the man you sleep with hits you."

She flinched. "You don't understand—"

"I understand perfectly. I've seen it dozens of times over in my clients. They come into a little money and success, and allow themselves to be dragged down by alcohol and drugs and people who take advantage of them."

"I'm
not
a druggie."

He pushed to his feet and walked over to the counter. After a bit of rummaging among the chaos, he held up three prescription bottles. "What are these?"

She pulled his jacket tighter around her shoulders. "The painkillers are for my neck. And my doctor said I wouldn't have to take the Prozac for very long."

"You won't, and you know why?" He spiked the bottles of pills into the sink. "Because at this rate you probably won't
live
for very long. You'll either starve yourself to death, accidentally overdose, or your boyfriend will throw you down a flight of stairs."

Tears welled in her eyes. "It's not that bad."

"Yes, it is." He pulled his hand down his face. "Let me give it to you straight, Mica. The marketing director from Tara said if you miss one more shoot, you're history."

She bit down on her tongue to stem her tears.

"And from here out, Dean is banned from the set."

"Dean will never agree to that." Besides, she was accustomed to having him nearby, having him handle everything.

Everett splayed his hands. "If you want to keep working, you're going to have to get rid of him, Mica; it's that simple. Get rid of Dean, and get your act together."

She brought her fist to her mouth.
Get rid of Dean?

"But even more important than saving your career, it might save your life."

But she couldn't... she loved him. And Dean knew things... damaging things... about her and her sisters....

Her agent pulled a card from his shirt pocket. "I arranged for you to be off for a few weeks to recuperate. And I made an appointment for you with a reliable doctor to get a complete physical this afternoon." He folded the card into her hand and gave her a look that said this medical business, too, was part of the deal. "I'd be happy to stay and explain the situation to Dean myself, if you're... concerned."

She shook her head. "No, I'll talk to him."

"Do you need a place to stay?"

"What?"

"In case he doesn't take the news well, do you need a place to stay?"

"No... I'll be fine."

He looked unconvinced. "Do you have protection?"

"Protection?"

"You know, a baseball bat or something in case he comes after you again?"

"I don't think—"

"Do you?"

"Well... there's a handgun in the bureau, but—"

"Do you know how to use it?"

"I grew up in the country; of course I know how to use it." She touched her forehead. "Everett, you're scaring me."

"Good. Maybe now you'll take this situation with Dean seriously."

Her laugh was dry, unbelieving. "For God's sake, I'm not his punching bag. This was a one-time incident. I'm sure it won't happen again."

He was pacing now. "Maybe you should take a vacation—leave town for a while and let things settle down."

To pacify him, she murmured, "Maybe I'll do that."

He stopped pacing and nodded, clearly relieved. "Call me if you have any problems. I'll come, day or night."

"Thank you, but I'm sure that won't be necessary."

Polly appeared with the tray.

"Make sure Ms. Metcalf eats the toast," he told her. "All of it." He looked back to Mica and pointed his finger. For a split second, she thought of Justine and her wagging finger. "If Dean hits you again, Mica, I'll kill him. Hell, I might take a shot at him anyway for this."

She blinked, then realized that Everett's threat was motivated by his need to protect his income.

"Good-bye, Mica."

She nodded mutely. After he strode out, her knees started bouncing up and down uncontrollably. What now? If Tara dropped her, she'd be relegated to catalog work or something equally demeaning and poor. She simply would not revert to their previous transient lifestyle. Modeling lingerie, dodging landlords, shoplifting clothes for auditions.

She chewed the toast slowly under Polly's watchful eye, trying not to think about the calories sliding down her throat. Dean would fly into a rage when he heard the client's demands—she had to think of a way to break the news to him that would flatter him, but the thinking would have to wait until her mind cleared. She downed the coffee and dismissed Polly, willing the aspirin to kick in. Everett's stained suit jacket went on a hook, her thong underwear on a pile of dirty clothes on the floor.

She gingerly stepped under the cool spray and leaned her head back—she'd learned to forgo hot water because it wasn't good for her hair. In fact, her daily routine pretty much revolved around washing, conditioning, and protecting her "product." In a business where extensions were common, her thigh-length fall of dark wavy hair was the real deal, and in demand. At least it had been yesterday.

She roused herself with a bar of the best soap her modeling money could buy, a silk-infused hand-friendly wedge made by a cosmetic company called Cocoon. She inhaled the soothing scent that was somewhere between white chocolate and cherry pie filling, and held the fragrance in her lungs as if she'd taken a hit from a joint. Slowly she worked the soap into a lather and massaged it into her scalp.

It was her only contact with Justine, this decadent soap produced by the company she worked for. And wouldn't her sister get a kick if she knew that Mica used
her
soap to maintain her valuable mane and poured Tara Hair products down the drain by the case? It was a tenuous, one-sided connection, Mica conceded, but using the soap made her feel better about the past—every day she washed away a little more of the guilt. One day she'd step out from under the water and be completely exonerated.

But not today, she observed as she toweled dry. Today she was inexplicably homesick for Justine—which probably explained her earlier hallucination about being inside the wardrobe. The summer she and her sisters had worked on that cabinet was the last good time, a symbol of sorts that they'd silently overcome the trauma of that horrid summer years before. They'd all been on the verge of escaping into their adult lives, on the brink of a collective exhale. When she left with Dean on the morning of his and Justine's wedding day, she'd shattered the delicate facade of sisterhood that they had presented to the world, especially to their parents. But after all these years of silence between her and her oldest sister, she still felt Justine's obstinate pull. She looked eastward. Especially today.

Her shoulders bowed from the strain as she exited to the bedroom wrapped in a bath sheet, walking to the beat of her throbbing hangover. Going clubbing last night with assorted acquaintances had seemed like a good idea when Dean had suggested it. They so rarely went anywhere together anymore, she'd been as eager as when she'd first met him on the sly as a teenager. Back then they had sipped beer in the back of his jacked-up Chevy Nova. Now Dean's idea of a good time required hard liquor and a limo.

The night had started well enough, with an outrageously expensive dinner at a new hot spot in the Hills—Dean had paid with yet another new gold credit card. An E! cameraman had stopped in looking for Penelope Cruz, who, the bartender told them, had used the ladies' room earlier in the evening. Not about to leave empty-handed, the guy had shot film of her, the Tara Hair Girl, as part of a series they were doing on celebrity hairstyles. Ecstatic about the potential coverage, Dean had ordered more drinks; then the group had gone dancing. After that, things were blurry, but she had the vague recollection of an argument here in the bedroom—accusations of her flirting with the cameraman. She had gone to the bathroom to get something, probably a wet cloth for her eye, which would explain why she woke up in the linen closet.

She picked her way across the carpeted floor, through discarded clothing, liquor bottles, and plates of half-eaten food. Mica paused and bit into her lip, thinking how her mother would chide if she could see the mess.

Of course, Mica had made her bed where her family's opinion was concerned years ago. There was too much water under the bridge now for trivial regrets.

Easing down on the foot of the unmade bed, she scanned the high-ceilinged room, the once-stunning white contemporary walls and furniture much compromised by flying objects and general abuse over the past couple of years. The room had seen the best and worst of times. Hours of lovemaking, giving way to hours of arguing, then more lovemaking. Love and hate and sex and sadism. Dean knew how to push every button on her panel. He came to her shoots because she came alive under his scrutiny. Those smiles and winks and flirtatious swings of her hair captured so vividly by the clients' cameras were for Dean sitting slightly offset. He could still stop her heart with one well-placed smile.

God help her for loving him. He was unbearable to live with but impossible to live without. Truthfully, she owed her career to him—without Dean, she'd be just another pretty face in LA, where even the housekeepers were gorgeous. His networking opened doors, and his attention gave her the spark to set herself apart. If she got rid of Dean, she might as well flush her future down the drain. Some love and some success was better than none.

At the thought of breaking Everett's news to Dean, panic licked at her nerve endings. Her freshly powdered underarms grew moist. Her hands shook uncontrollably. The bravado she'd shown her agent crumbled. She'd seen glimpses of what Dean was capable of doing—he'd kill her before he'd step aside. She rescued her antidepressants and downed one, plus a glass of water. Pacing from bathroom to bedroom, she hugged herself, trying desperately not to cry. First things first, she had to convince this doctor of Everett's that she was okay.

She held the ice bag against her puffy eye for fifteen minutes, then put in eyedrops and carefully applied concealer to the bruise. Bronzer all over her face gave her a nice glow. Baggy jeans, padded bra, T-shirt, and a bulky summer sweater plumped up her figure. She gently combed her wet hair and left it to dry naturally. She did take time to pull an alarming amount of hair from the comb and flush it down the toilet.

When she rummaged for her pink-lensed sunglasses, she remembered the gun in the bureau. Everett's warning hung in her brain. Mica pulled out the cold black pistol, hefting its weight in her hand. Her father had given the semiautomatic to Dean—not surprising considering the men's once-close relationship—and it was one of Dean's prize possessions. The feel of the gun brought back memories of sneaking out with Dean to park at the city landfill. They would sit on the hood of his car and neck and listen to the radio. After Dean had downed a few beers, he'd pick off rats scurrying around the base of the mountain of buried garbage. She'd stuff paper napkins in her ears and occasionally he'd let her hold the gun and pull the trigger. She remembered thinking it was surprisingly easy, and even now she could feel the lingering vibration in her hand and taste the smoky tang that hung in the air afterward.

She removed the cartridge from the grip to find one round inside, then pulled back the slide to make sure the chamber was empty. Mica hesitated, then slipped the gun into her big shoulder bag—she didn't intend to use it, but it wouldn't hurt to know its whereabouts during what promised to be an unpredictable few days.

A check of the time hurried her movements. She trotted to the phone to write a message for Dean in case he came home while she was gone. Her stomach pitched when she lifted a smelly pizza box to uncover a pad of paper. Then she frowned down at the note in Dean's handwriting:

Call your sister at work

No question which sister. Mica pursed her lips.

Or was there?

Regina had never called her from the office before. Meanwhile, Justine had been preying on her mind all morning. The image of her flame-haired sister was so clear in her mind, she could almost hear Justine's voice calling out to her. Obeying her premonition, she picked up the phone and dialed directory assistance.

"Shively, Pennsylvania, please. Cocoon Cosmetics."

Chapter 4