Unscripted (41 page)

He blinked. “Yeah. I should.”

It took every ounce of willpower I had not to laugh in his face. “You absolutely should.”

“Then I will.”

And he stalked off to his trailer to sulk—and call his agent.

He actually did start proceedings to get out of his contract and, to my own surprise, I was fine with it. I wanted him gone—I wanted peace restored to my set, even if it meant losing our biggest ratings draw.

Naturally it wasn’t that easy—there were contracts and studio executives and network lawyers and all sorts of other obstacles that Alex hadn’t thought about. So every day that he was forced to stay on the
Modern Women
set, the nastier he got, which only made me more certain that letting him go was the right thing to do.

Finally, Randy called a meeting, and negotiations ensued. There was a lot of shouting, a lot of wheedling, but I had the ultimate say on whether I let him out of his contract or not, despite the army of lawyers around the conference table. And I held my ground.

The compromise, to appease Randy and the other studio execs, was that when I wrote him off the show at the end of the season, I couldn’t kill him off, leaving him the option of returning at a later date without the awkwardness of
Dallas
’sBobby in the shower or
Grey’s Anatomy
’s Dead Denny. For Alex’s part, he had to sign an agreement that I came up with (and I couldn’t believe I got away with it) that prohibited him from appearing in any other network television show for three years. He signed it, but I remembered his expression when he did—there were some serious doubts there. Not like he’d ever confess them to me in private; we were beyond that stage, however fleeting it had been, in our odd relationship.

It turned out that Alex’s fears hadn’t been unfounded. He did indeed star in
Guns and ’Gars,
which opened in limited release and then went straight to video. He never snagged another movie deal, and the agreement he signed kept him off the small screen. So he could blather on all he wanted about wanting to “learn how to act” and wanting to go someplace “real,” like a college out in the middle of nowhere, but I knew the truth of it—he’d cut off his own nose to spite his pretty face, and all he could do was wait out the three-year ban by pretending to be doing something to broaden his mind.

I sincerely hoped that his time at IECC had changed him, but it hadn’t. And once again we were all paying for it.

* * *

Now here he was, repeating his past behavior. Just like last time. He threw tantrums. He was rude to the crew. He was late to the set, even when he had an afternoon or night call time. But the one thing he didn’t dare do was argue with me about anything having to do with David or the show. So that gave me a modicum of peace.

I realized Alex was biting the hand that fed him again because he was feeling trapped by his own success. Although he loved being back as the top ratings draw, he hadn’t thought far enough ahead to realize that he was locked in as David for the foreseeable future. He was getting the fame and adoration he longed for—by playing David.
Only
by playing David. Other actors might have embraced that and been grateful that one of their characters had become eternally beloved. But not Alex. The tighter the David costume, the more he fought to get out of it.

* * *

When it was time for the refugees from the IECC theater department to arrive, I was worried about what would happen when Kaylie and Alex were in the same place again. I even toyed with the idea of giving her some far-flung assignment, like liaison to the executive office, to keep her away from Alex as much as possible, but I knew that Kaylie wouldn’t want that. And I was right. She once again had her fierce little pit-bull persona in place, and dived right into life on the set as though she was born to do it.

Seeing her scoot around, with her aura of authority and her headphones around her neck, just like the first time I’d met her in the IECC auditorium, warmed the cockles of my jaded heart. The girl was definitely a survivor, and if she cast a regretful glance at Alex every once in a while, I knew it would soon blow over. I promised myself to give her a hand in whatever she planned to do in her career. I owed her that much, and she deserved it.

In fact, she was nearby, barking orders like she owned the place, when Randy came to the set for a visit. He just couldn’t stay away from a show that was once again a cash cow for the network. He had to parade around, surveying his kingdom and playing the benevolent despot to his peasants . . . although he tended to give me a wide berth physically (can’t imagine why). The cast and crew usually tolerated his occasional walk among the masses—because I always promised them ice cream afterward—and everything went well. Until this time, when Randy’s visit coincided with one of Alex’s tantrums.

I was directing, so Randy chatted with Jaya while the scene was being set up. I was proud of myself, that I didn’t get nervous or suspicious at the sight of them having a conversation without me. I was comfortable in my own skin, confident that nobody was going to take this job away from me again.

I turned back to the scene setup; it was going to be a pretty intense confrontation between David and tough-guy Roman. Both Alex and Frank, the guy who played Roman, were on their marks. Alex seemed a little fidgety as he muttered his lines to himself.

“Alex?” I called. “You good?”

He nodded and shot me a harsh look before returning to his muttering. Apparently I had messed with the vibe he had going—as if I cared. I shrugged and turned to talk to one of the camera crew.

Then all hell broke loose.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

My head whipped around in time to see Alex fling his hand up, blocking Zoë, one of our makeup artists, who had taken the opportunity to scoot onto the set and powder down Alex’s shine a little.

“Don’t
touch
me, all right?” he snarled at her.

“Hey!” I snapped. “Calm your ass down, Alex. Zoë’s just doing her job.”

“I’m concentrating! I don’t want her to touch me when I’m concentrating!”

Randy marched over to see what was going on. God, that was all I needed.

“Just do the fucking scene, prima donna. Who do you think you are, God’s gift to television?”

Oh, that didn’t help matters. Thanks a bunch, Randy.

Alex rounded on him. “Get out of my sight line, you fat fuck—”

I hadn’t seen Randy turn that color of purple since I had helped myself to his nuts. He choked out something like, “Do you
know
who I am—”

“I don’t care if you’re the king of India! You’re in my sight line. Now get
out!
”

So of course Randy turned to me. “What is it with this dipshit?” he growled, like it was my fault. And it was. It was my set; I was responsible.

“Don’t worry—I’ll take care of it.” I jumped down from my director’s chair and started toward Alex.

“Who does he think he is?” Randy shouted after me.

“Brando, apparently,” I tossed back.

I strode onto the set, but someone rushed past me. I blinked; it was Kaylie, inches from Alex, her palms flat on his chest as though she were pushing him back, talking to him rapidly, heatedly. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but I hung back and watched as Alex started to argue, stopped, tried to twist away, failed—Kaylie got in front of him again—and finally he calmed down, shoving his fists in the pockets of his jeans and staring at his shoes.

The entire crew let out the collective breath it had been holding as Kaylie said a few more words to him, patted him softly, touched the back of his neck gently, then walked away, her head bowed.

I grabbed her arm as she came off the set. “Hey,” I whispered. “What was that?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. It’s all right. He’ll be fine now.”

“What did you say?”

“Doesn’t matter, does it?”

“You’ve got the touch with him.” She shrugged and started to walk away, but I stopped her again. I glanced over at Alex; he had eyes for nobody but Kaylie, a thoughtful look on his face. “Thank you,” I murmured. “Stick around, all right?”

“Don’t make me his keeper.”

“I think you already are.”

She shrugged again.

“What’s up with the two of you lately, anyway?”

“That doesn’t matter either.”

“You still have a thing for him?”

“I . . . understand him.”

“Does he appreciate that?”

Almost smiling, she answered quietly, “Sometimes.”

“Stick by him, then. I think he’s starting to come around.”

“What if I don’t want to?” Ah, there was my tough little Kaylie.

“I think you do. Besides, I need you to help me get him through the rest of this season, all right?”

“Maybe.” And she gently pried my hand off her arm and walked away, calling someone on her headset.

Before I could get back to the scene, Randy got closer to me than he’d been in a long time, and he didn’t look happy. “Faith. Do something about that guy.”

I took a deep breath. “Don’t worry. I’ve got it covered.”

Chapter 25

Mason bobbed on his toes at the front door of my mother’s rented beach house. I glanced over at him as I rang the doorbell. I’d never seen him this jittery. “Oh, seriously? Calm your ass down, Mitchell. It’s just my mom and Dominic.”

He didn’t look at me. “I can’t believe I’m going to have dinner with Mona Urquhart.”

“So? It’s not like you haven’t spent time with her before. And she just
loves
you. So what are you worried about?”

“I can’t believe the woman I love is the daughter of
Mona Urquhart
.”

“And here I thought you just loved me for my boobs.”

That word snapped him out of it, at least for a second. He gazed at the anatomy in question and stopped twitching. “Oh, I do. Your being the daughter of one of my idols is just, you know, a bonus.”

I was ready to fire back when the door opened to reveal my stepfather, preceded by his prominent belly, encased rather tightly in a white polyester polo shirt and salmon slacks. “Rossmerry!” He held out his tanned arms, and I gave him a peck on his ruddy cheek.

“Dominic. How are you liking the beach?”

“Is very nice. I surf every day now. I think I buy the place.”

“Oh really?”

“Eh, we see.”

“I think you should, Dominic.”

“Why you no call me Papa?”

I admired his persistence; we’d been having the same conversation for years.

“Because I’m nearly forty, Dominic. I don’t call anybody Papa.”

He shook Mason’s hand and, still gripping it, pointed at him with the other. “You call him Papa, yes?”

Okay, that one threw me. I frowned at my stepfather, puzzled, then glanced at Mason, who also looked bewildered. But after a second, Mason’s confusion cleared. “Oh. I think you mean ‘Daddy.’”

“Ah!” Dominic crowed, nodding. “Ah-hah! Yes! Daddy! Hah?”

My mouth fell open. “Dominic! You dirty old man!”

He flapped his free hand dismissively, still beaming, still trapping Mason in an apparently permanent handshake. “I like him. You keep.” Then he turned to my blessedly good-natured boyfriend. “You come with me. I get you drink. You play ukulele?”

“Sorry . . . ?”

“Ukulele. Is good. You play? If no, I teach. Come . . .”

Dominic led Mason through the airy, all-white “mod” main floor of the spacious beach house, then down some stairs to the entertainment room and the bar. I was left to wend my way into the kitchen, trying not to think too much about the time Mason and I spent here for the holidays a couple of months ago—or what we did. And where. Like in the living room . . . and over by the dining room windows . . . and on the stairs . . . and in the kitchen. Where, now, my unsuspecting mother was helping her chef with the last of the dinner preparations.

“Dominic has kidnapped Mason, I see,” she murmured, sprinkling some slivered almonds on the salad.

I put the flowers we’d brought on the counter and started hunting in the cupboards for a vase. “Since when does he play the ukulele?”

“Who says he does?” She shook her head, amused. I noticed that her face was finally free of bruises, and her face-lift and chin tuck had taken nicely. “I hope he doesn’t put Mason off.”

“I doubt it. Not much does.” I put the flowers in a vase and shook them out. “He’s immensely patient.”

Mona carried the salad over to the table and looked at me over her shoulder, a shrewd glint in her eye, as I helped myself to a glass of wine. “Everything going all right?”

“Are we talking about work, or Mason?”