Where You Are (33 page)

To my new copy editor, Stephanie Lott (aka Bibliophile), it was wonderful to put this manuscript in your capable hands and have you find the errors missed by my brain as I was reading through it for the hundredth time.

Thanks Mom and Dad for the supportive phone calls, asking how the book is doing and how the writing is going. Your cheerful encouragement means so much. Still sorry about the cursing. I love you!

Zach, your dream was the inspiration for this entire series. Thank you for taking time to share info on the technical aspects of your craft, as well as the gossipy bits. I’m so proud of you.

Keith, thank you for liking and understanding Reid. You’ve helped me flesh him out better than I ever could have without your input.

Thank you Paul, for taking care of me—making sure I’m fully stocked on coffee, doing laundry, grocery shopping, cooking, and being the inspiration for every guy I will ever write—yes, even the really naughty ones. I love you even more than I did at seventeen, though I couldn’t have imagined this life, or this love, at the time.

Finally, thank you to every reader who took a chance on Between the Lines, and enjoyed it enough to come back for more. Without your support, doing what I love would be a lot less fun.

I'm addicted to coffee and Cherry Garcia frozen yogurt. I love shopping for earrings, because they always fit, even if I occasionally "forget" to work out. I'm a hopeful romantic who adores novels with happy endings, because there are enough sad endings in real life.

Please visit me on the web at TammaraWebber.blogspot.com or find me on Facebook.

GOOD FOR YOU

(Between the Lines #3)

Available December 2011

REID

My thoughts upon becoming fully conscious: first,
shit
,
I’m in the hospital again
, and second,
how bad is the damage to my one-week-old Porsche?

“I see you’re awake.” That would be Dad, stating the obvious—a skill at which he excels.

“Oh, honey, I’m so glad you’re okay.” A warm hand grasps mine, and I turn towards Mom’s voice out of a natural inclination to ignore my father. Especially to his face.

My satisfaction lurches to a stop when I see Mom’s eyes, swollen and red-rimmed, and her mouth, clamped tight in a failed attempt to restrict the trembling of her lower lip. Unfortunately, this isn’t an absurd maternal response. If memory serves, I had a little too much to drink and then crashed my car into a
house
. Not one of my more reassuring exploits.

In a futile effort to divert attention from the bodily-harm part of my vehicular mishap, I ask, “Um, how’s the car?”

“How’s the
car
? How’s the
car
?” Dad’s eyebrows almost meet his receding hairline. “That’s what you choose to inquire about first, after this debacle? Do you have any notion of the destruction of property you’ve caused, not to mention what you may have done to your career?”

Would it have been that hard to just tell me the damned thing was totaled?

“Mark,” Mom’s lower lip quivers, “he’s
alive
. Everything else can be fixed.”

I wonder if she means
fixed
, like the emergency appendectomy that landed me in the hospital last fall right in the middle of filming my last blockbuster, or
fixed
, like when I got busted a year ago at a party where everyone was smoking weed, but I got off for lack of evidence.

“Can it?” Dad shoots back, grabbing his jacket from the chair and heading for the door. “God
dammit
, Reid, I’m not sure if anything about you can be repaired. You’ve had a low regard for the needs of everyone else for some time—and now you’ve extended that carelessness to your own life. I can’t imagine what you were thinking.”

I don’t answer. I figure he doesn’t want to hear that
not thinking
was sort of the point.

*** *** ***

Dori

I try to keep my voice encouraging, even though I’m yelling at the top of my lungs. “Okay, guys, let’s take it from the top!” 

That thing they say about herding cats? Try herding eighteen five-year-olds into practicing a vocal finale for vacation bible school Parent Night when they’re intent on the swimming pool time they’ve been promised for good behavior.

“Miss Dori?” I feel a tug on the side of my denim capris. It’s Rosalinda, from whom I hear
Miss Doooooriiiii?
at least a dozen times a day.

“Yes, Rosa?” I say, and before the words leave my mouth, seventeen five-year-olds are springing out of their seats and shouldering each other aside at the window to stare longingly at the pool shimmering just outside under a brilliant, haze-free June sky.

“I need to
go
.”
Again
? This kid has a bladder the size of a quarter.

“Can you hold it another minute, sweetie? We’re almost done—” A squeal sounds from across the room. Jonathan has scissors in one hand and Keisha’s braid in the other. “Jonathan,
drop it
.” I bite my lip at the startled look on his face. Must not laugh. It’s not funny.
Not funny
.

He blinks, eyes shifting from scissors to braid. “Which one?”

I narrow my eyes. “Let’s start with Keisha’s hair.” He releases the braid and she runs to her friends, who gather around her while glaring at him. I’ve never had a group of girlfriends like that—a protective clique, a guardian posse.

“Miss
Dori
,” Rosa whines, tugging harder. I take her hand to keep her from pulling my pants down. I’d
never
restore order if that were to happen.

“Just a minute, Rosa.” I squeeze her hand gently. “Jonathan,” I say more sternly. “Bring me those scissors.” Eyes on his untied sneakers, he shuffles over as slowly as is humanly possible. “Where’d you get them?”

He holds the scissors out with both hands as though presenting a gift to royalty. Not falling for his fake contrition, I arch an eyebrow.

He chances a peek at my face. “Mrs. K’s desk,” he mumbles, scowling at his feet again.

Our church secretary, Filomena Kowalczyk, speaks with a heavy Polish accent despite having immigrated to the US about a hundred years ago. She keeps a huge jar of candy on her desk and wears creaky orthopedic shoes which have the same effect as a bell on a cat’s collar. The kids hear her coming down the hall five minutes before she arrives. Judging by the smear of chocolate on Jonathan’s mouth, I’d say he sampled a Hershey Kiss or two before making off with her scissors.

“Do we take Mrs. K’s things without permission?” I fix a disappointed look on him.

He shakes his head.

“Is taking things that don’t belong to you what Pastor Doug means by good behavior?”

His wide, dark eyes snap up to mine. Bingo, kid. Pool time is in jeopardy.

“But Miss Dori!” he says. “I didn’t
cut
it!”

“We aren’t talking about Keisha’s braid yet. We’re discussing you taking Mrs. K’s scissors—”

“I’ll put them back!” Tears fill his eyes. “I’m s-s-sorry!”

“You’re sorry because you got caught,” I say, and he bursts into tears. Oh, dear Lord.

“Miss Dori!” Rosa wails, cupping herself, one leg raised and pressing against the other.

I sigh in defeat, giving up on the program rehearsal for today. “All right, everyone line up for the bathroom!”

“Me first! Me
first!
” Rosa says, keeping her death grip on my hand. As I walk to the head of the line, she hops lightly behind me on one foot.

“Jonathan, come stand by me.” Rubbing tears away with his fist, he takes my other hand, and I leave the classroom with eighteen ducklings trailing behind.

In a few weeks, I’ll be on a mission trip to Ecuador. As exotic as that sounds, I’ll be doing much the same thing I’m doing now—I’ll just be doing it in Spanish.

REID

I loosen the tie the second I turn to head out of the courtroom. The next thing to go will be this crap in my hair that makes me look like one of my father’s fuckwit subordinates.

“Put that back on,” Dad barks, his shoulders rigid. He’s judged me guilty as charged even though the prosecution accepted our plea bargain—sort of.

I contemplate ignoring him for half a second, until my manager’s less dictatorial voice urges discretion. “Reid, there will be press.
School Pride
is out in theaters. This is no time to look like a rebel. We’ve already lost a couple of endorsements—your image is suffering enough without you giving the impression that you’re ungrateful to have gotten off easy for something that would land 99.9% of regular people in jail.”

“You call that
easy
?” I never snap at George, but I can’t agree with his assessment. The judge’s mandates for my plea bargain are beyond ridiculous.

“Yes—as would anyone with half a brain,” Dad butts in. Subtlety has never been in my father’s nature. “Put the goddamned tie back on, Reid.”

My jaw works overtime as I refasten the top buttons of the white Armani dress shirt and loop the perfect half-Windsor knot back into the understated Hermes tie. By the time I’m thirty, I’ll have worn my teeth down to nubs.

Friends ask why I don’t just ditch my dad. I’m nineteen, an adult in every legal sense of the word (except the ability to drink legally, which is annoying as shit). I’m a legitimate Hollywood star, with a manager, an agent, a PR guy, or woman, as the case may be—Dad may have fired Larry when he didn’t move fast enough to save those endorsements last week.

That’s the thing. My father takes care of
everything
. He’s the CEO of my life, and I’m the product. He manages my career, my money, my legal issues… I don’t have to do jack shit but show up for auditions, movie tapings, premieres and occasional commercial endorsements. I can’t stand him any more than he can stand me, but I know he won’t screw me over.

My manager was right. The media is camped out on the courthouse steps, ready to take my statement. I had nothing to do with writing it. George handed it to me last night when Dad and my attorney—whose name I can’t recall because I couldn’t care less which junior kiss-ass partner wannabe Dad selected from his firm to represent me—were reviewing the bargaining strategy for this morning. Time for my Oscar-worthy performance of contrition.

Dad fades behind me as planned while I’m flanked by George and junior kiss-ass. I fix an appropriately repentant expression on my face. “I just want to apologize to my fans. I’m so sorry to have let all of you down. I assure you that this incident was a momentary lapse in judgment, and it won’t be repeated.”

Someone shoves a mike in my face. “Will you go into rehab?”

Cue the look of shame layered over remorse. “The judge didn’t believe that would be necessary at this time. But I intend to follow the terms of the court’s orders to the letter, and this occurrence will
not
be repeated.”

A guy from one of the local Hispanic stations looks like his bullshit detector is set on high. “What about the home you destroyed, and the family you displaced?”

Come on, asshat. It was one room of a house, and no one was in it, so no one was hurt. “The home owners are being compensated,” I say. “The details are private, but the reparation has been agreed upon by all parties.”

“Your father’s paying them off, you mean.” The hell? This guy is persistent. Maybe he’s related to them or something.

“No, sir.” I look him in the eye, all mano a mano. “I was responsible for the accident.
I’m
the one paying.”

“And you feel comfortable calling it an
accident
when you, an underage boy, chose to drink yourself to more than double the limit for a
legal
adult, and then drive a two-thousand pound vehicle and through a residential area?”

“Well, I—”

 “The owner of the property is a real estate company. What about the family living there, renting the home? They’re hardworking people, but uninsured, and now they’ve lost belongings they can’t afford to replace, in
addition
to the fact that they’re currently homeless. What about them?”

You’ve
got
to be kidding me. I want to kick this guy’s ass so bad my fist is already knotted.

Junior kiss-ass decides this is the time to step in and earn that partnership. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen—as Mr. Alexander’s legal counsel, I assure you that he takes full responsibility for his actions and intends to repair
all
of the damage done, and then some.”

Isn’t that what I just
said?

And what the hell does he mean by
and then some
?

*** *** ***

Dori

While Dad says grace, my mind wanders. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, and I always keep my eyes shut, but sometimes I have so much to keep track of that my brain is making lists and checking off details any time it perceives a calm moment to do so.

Parent Night rehearsals with the kids will have to wait until next week. My Habitat for Humanity project has a more pressing deadline thanks to the self-centered, egocentric moron who drove his stupid sports car into the living room of our future family’s rental place. I don’t get people like him—people who think of no one, ever, but themselves. They just take up space on the planet, never contributing anything worthwhile.

He’s the reverse of someone like my dad—Pastor Doug to the parishioners of our church and the surrounding neighborhood. Dad would tell me that God wouldn’t be pleased about my biases concerning Reid Alexander.

God has a purpose, even for him
, Dad would say.

Yeah, right.

Ugh
, there I go again.

I’ll be spending the next several days straight working on the Habitat house. Luckily, we have much of it done. Unfortunately, that doesn’t include the A/C, and it’s already hot and hazy. Much of Los Angeles lives without central air; I shouldn’t complain. I have a comfortable home, even if it’s not chockfull of luxury items like big-screen televisions and rooms of furniture where everything matches. Mom knows her way around with a paint brush, and she’s amazing at using saris bought at the bazaar as colorful window coverings and table cloths, or plants to cover a stain on the carpet or a crack in the plaster walls.