Not in the Script (18 page)

Jake and I didn't get back to Tucson until two thirty in the morning. Then we talked in his car until after three. He had me in a giggle fit the entire time—saying all the right things to embarrass me, but not going so far that I was offended. My sides are still sore from laughing when my alarm buzzes at seven. It takes me a moment to remember why I set it; it's Saturday.

Motocross
. Brett. Kimmi. Lots of noise.

Brett picks me up in his electric-blue custom truck, with just a bench seat in the front, and we head to Kimmi's place. She jumps in, scooting me right next to Brett, so he says, “Hey, honey,” with the tone of a total hick, and gives my knee a squeeze.

Seating is also an issue on our flight to Los Angeles. When Brett bought the tickets there were only two seats left in first class so he had to buy one in coach as well, which he'd “unintentionally” attached to Kimmi's name.

I offer to take her place in coach, since she refuses to sit there, but Brett says, “Kimmi and I will fight the entire ninety minutes, and the air marshals will come after us.”

He has a good point, so I end up next to Kimmi in first class.

She's too busy with demands on the flight attendants to talk to me for a while, but when she's finally settled in and has reapplied her lip gloss, she turns my way and says, “I've been meaning to tell you that you pull off the tramp act better than I'd thought you would.”

“Um, thanks?” Is she referring to the way I play my character, or saying that I'm acting like a tramp as myself? I choose the safer path. “I don't think Eden is exactly what she seems. I've heard some girls dress that way because they're looking for any attention they can get, so I bet deeper issues will come out as her story unfolds.”

Kimmi's mouth parts as if I've directly insulted her. “Just because a girl isn't ashamed of her body doesn't mean she has issues.
Or
that she wants attention.”

A touchy little nerve there. “Of course not. I'm only speculating about my character. You're doing an amazing job with Kassidy, by the way. Are you okay with the costumes now?”

Kimmi closes her compact mirror with a snap. “I'm wearing them, aren't I?”

“And I'm still stuck with being Look at Me Barbie.”

I expect another snarky comment, but Kimmi offers me what could actually pass for a real smile before uncoiling her earbuds and plugging them into her ears.

A few minutes later, a flight attendant hands me an airline napkin with huge scribbled words on it:
Come back here
.
I'm bored!!!
My gosh, Brett needs a full-time circus to entertain him. “He ran
out of room on the napkin, but he wants me to tell you he has a deck of cards,” the flight attendant says. “And an empty seat beside him.”

“All right, thanks,” I reply, a bit put on the spot. I turn to talk to Kimmi, but she already has her eyes closed.

Brett sees me coming down the narrow aisle and waves. He isn't the only one who notices me, though, so I stop several times to return greetings from passengers. As usual, I feel rude for not having more personal what's-your-name, where-are-you-from conversations with every one of them.

“I'm impressed,” Brett says when I finally reach him. “You lasted longer with Kimmi than I expected.”

There are three seats on his half of the row, but he's sitting in the middle one, so I still have to sit right next to him. I choose the window. “I plugged
Coyote Hills
all over the place while we were boarding,” he adds. “And I told everyone this is a publicity trip, so don't worry about your whole
we're-not-a-couple
phobia.”

“I won't,” I reply. “You have a deck of cards? Let's play.”

“Nah, I just wanted to give you an excuse to ditch Kimmi.” Brett leans closer. “I need to ask you something.”

“Okay, but you might want to lower your voice from sonic boom?”

“Sorry, I only have two volumes: loud and deafening,” he says. But then he at least
tries
to whisper. “Look, I just want to make sure you're serious about keeping things casual, even in private, because I've had a feeling since we first met that you have a thing for me, and—”

“What? No, I don't!” I jerk away from him, my face instantly burning. Then I catch myself and hush my own voice. “Why
would I do that? Have a thing for you, I mean. Because I don't. Never did.”

“Wow, you really do have it bad,” he says, laughing and moving closer again. “Or
did
… which is it? Present or past?”

How did he figure this out?

He hums the theme from
Jeopardy
, waiting for my answer. And there's no escape—not without a parachute—so I finally look directly at him and say, “Past tense, Brett.
Very
past tense. So wipe off that silly grin.”

“I knew it!” he says, pointing at me in triumph, and I slap his hand down. “But you're already over me? Since when?”

“Since the day we met and I discovered you were a total perv,” I say, almost laughing myself. “And you have no social filter whatsoever. Like now, for example, you're sitting here all full of yourself, and you're not the least bit bothered by how stupid you're making
me
feel. You really can't see what's wrong with that, can you?”

“Um, sort of?”

There's no stopping me now. “You've been treated like a movie star since you were four, and allowed to say
whatever
to
whomever
you want. So sixteen years later, you still have the maturity of a four-year-old.”

“Ouch,” Brett says, and leans back against his seat. “Let me hear it then, straight out. What do I do that's so immature?”

Fine, he asked for it. “For a start, the way you talk to girls, and about girls, is disgusting. I want to rinse your mouth out with toilet bowl cleaner,” I say. “You need to think about things before they come blasting out—especially if they have anything to do with …”

I whisper, even quieter, half a dozen of his favorite ill-humored topics.

“That stuff's not so bad. Aren't you gonna tell me I have to stop talking about—” I slam my hand over his mouth before he can get anything out. But then he calms down, and says, “Okay, the truth is, I
know
I need to grow up. You're about the hundredth person to drop that hint lately. Even my parents have been getting irritated with me, which is … weird.”

Brett's parents are known to pamper him, big time. “Well, I can tell you're at least trying to be nicer to Kimmi, so keep that up. It's a good start.”

He reaches across me to close the window shade, with a bit of a bang, before he speaks again. “It would be a whole lot easier if someone would just tape my mouth shut, or at least write a script that dictates
exactly
how I should behave. I could follow that, no problem. But instead, I get crap from almost everyone—people judging me, hating me. I don't remember the last time someone other than my mom or dad gave me a compliment that wasn't related to … well, you know, the way I look. Or my acting, which is nice, but kind of doesn't count because that's me pretending to be
someone else
.”

I'm listening intently but am too astonished to interrupt him.

Brett pushes both hands through his hair. “I mean, how many roles have I played—since I was a kid? Twenty, at least. And I swear, a bit of each character has hung on to me, so now I'm just a sloppy conglomeration of all these people who … who don't even really exist.” He looks at me, still completely serious. “Is this making any sense? Because what I'm saying is”—Brett motions with his hands to indicate his entire body—“how much of this
freak show
is really
me
?”

Wow. “I totally get where you're coming from,” I tell him. “You've actually just voiced something I've been trying to put into
words for years. That's a compliment for you, right? And I actually gave you another one a minute ago—I said I was impressed by your effort to get along with Kimmi. So there, that's two in just one day, from someone other than your parents.”

Brett grins, his entire demeanor changing in an instant. “No wonder I like you, Taylor. But not
that
way,” he says with a nudge. “Now stop touching me, or you'll make people talk.”

Maybe this trip won't be so bad after all.

Payton picks us up at the airport in his black Escalade, and Kimmi sits in the front seat, where he has a perfect view of her long, beautiful legs. She actually seems nervous, fidgeting with her bag and such. Payton is, after all, sort of a marvel to look at—dirty-blond hair, killer brown eyes, just a shadow of facial hair—the guy is a perfect image of a mega movie star.

I already know the other guys too. Gabe and Aiden are members of a boy band who can barely sing, but girls scream so loud at their concerts no one notices. They hit on me every time I see them. But they hit on everyone.

The California weather is great as usual—overcast enough to keep the sun from beating down, but still warm. Brett gets lost in the races pretty fast, but once in a while, he leans over to tell me something “super cool” about this special engagement event. He also makes sure that I notice, over and over again, the unique roars of each souped-up engine, which really only sound like a whole lot of noise to me.

Kimmi seems put out because Payton isn't paying more attention to her. She's left the bleachers several times to make “important
calls,” but I suspect that she keeps leaving just so she can make another grand entrance, which is usually when Payton talks to her the most.

Dirt is spraying everywhere, and we're in the front row, so the exhaust from the bikes is mixing with the dirt to make my bare legs look like I've been mud wrestling. Brett keeps laughing about the state of my legs and offering to clean them off.

“Thanks, but no,” I tell him. What was I thinking, wearing shorts?

Brett returns his attention to the riders who are lining up for the next race right as my cell buzzes in my back pocket, so I sit on the bench and read a text message from Jake:
Devin says yes. He'll take you out if you really want him to. And my invisible brother Charlie wants to go out with you too. Do I get commission for setting up these deals?

I laugh, just to myself, and write back:
One date for me = one hamburger for you. Fair?

Once I send that, I notice my stomach doing back flips. Not good. And Jake's message had a typical friend tone. But
my
text was flirty.

Crap! Someone needs to invent a way to unsend text messages.

Jake is taking an unusually long time to reply, so I stand again and yell like everyone else, having no clue who I'm cheering for. When the engines die down, everyone starts talking about dinner plans. I hear a word here and there, and I fight the urge to check my cell when it buzzes again.

What if Jake flirts back? What if I've started something I can't stop? I finally just grab my phone and read his message:
Darn.
Only one burger then, for the Devin deal. I tried to find Charlie to tell him the good news, but he's disappeared again.

I stifle a laugh and put my phone away before Brett notices who I'm talking to. Then seconds later, he latches on to my arms and turns me toward him. “I'm guessing that big smile means you're cool with 99.”

“With what?” I ask.

“Club 99,” he says. “Sara Roberts is having her birthday bash there tonight.”

“Awesome. Let's go,” I rush to say. Then something dark trickles into me … if this is a party for Sara, Troy might be there. He's the reason I know her. “Oh, wait. I'm actually staying at my aunt's tonight, and promised I'd be there around seven,” I tack on, which is true, except that she isn't expecting me at any particular time. “And that's only an hour from now.”

“Are you serious? Your curfew is at
seven
?”

“Not my curfew, but—” I give myself a mental shake. I can't outrun Troy forever. At some point I'll have to face him, and it might be better if it's in front of a crowd, where he always plasters on his phony smile and looks like the hottest hookup in the room. “Never mind. I'll just call her and—”

“Hey! Get lost, will ya?” Brett yells. He lets go of my arms and leans over the guardrail. “Do your job! The race is
behind
you!”

I peek over the rail too, and my head spins.

“Brett … that isn't a motocross photographer.” The guy taking pictures of us is a sleazebag named Craig Paddock, and he's on my list of most despised paparazzi. But he has on an actual press pass—probably fake—so there isn't anything we can do about him.

Gabe has an idea of his own, though, and starts undoing his belt as he turns his back to Paddock. “I'll give him a shot he can make a million on.”

Brett scoots past me. “No way, dude,” he says, stopping him. “I promised McGregor I wouldn't get caught within fifty miles of bad press.”

Paddock points his camera toward the motorcycles to keep up his ruse, and goes off thousands of dollars richer. His profit depends on which shots he got, and how much gossip a reporter can dig up to attach them to.

We attract so much attention at the end of the race that security has to escort us to the parking lot. Paddock is around for all of it, of course, snapping pictures like it's his only daughter's first day of school. And right in the middle of the chaos, Kimmi links an arm with mine and says, “How do you deal with this, Emma? It's crazy!”

“Just smile and hope you don't have anything between your teeth,” I reply, thinking Kimmi picked an awfully convenient time to become my best friend. There's nothing better for a starlet than to be seen with the A-crowd.

That's when it hits me … Paddock was tipped off.