Clarity Page 25

  He watches her walk away and as soon as Quinn is out of ear shot, his face spins back towards mine. Chase is a looker, the perfect catch for Quinn. He gets his Hispanic good looks from his mom’s side of the family, along with an intense family loyalty.

  “A little privacy?” I demand as I swing my legs over the side of the bed and hold my blanket over my chest. Chase is a friend, we even work together on a soap opera called Timelines, but I still don’t want him to see me in my pajamas.

  “Oh come on, my dear, I practically saw you naked last night.” He moves closer with a playful look in his eyes and offers to help me up. He isn’t flirting with me. Chase is too far gone with Quinn and their soon to be child to care about me. He’s just trying to be nice. He feels sorry for me which is worse.

  “Quinn was super stressed out last night. You can’t do this again. She needs to be focusing on herself, not worrying about you.”

  I swallow hard, still unable to recall any memories from the night before. I’m being selfish, I know this. But ask any old reporter. Ginger Teague is an obnoxious bitch who doesn’t care about anyone except herself. But I never wanted to be that way. “What happened? Did I do something. . . . bad? You know, besides mutilate my perfect body?”

  “No, you didn’t harm anyone if that’s what you mean.”

  “Thank God,” I practically exhaled the words. I’ve been singing an awful lot of praise this morning.

  “But . . . Barrett called me. Apparently, you showed up at his house at one in the morning. The camera was there with Jo. There were words exchanged, things got physical . . . fortunately we got you before the cops showed up.”

  A flash. Something tugs at my memory, but I can’t tell if it’s real or something I made up inside my head. Barrett. Yelling. I hit him.

  I hold up my right hand, sure enough my knuckles are red and hurt like a bitch.

  “I broke my nails.” I turn over my hand to examine a few of the broken acrylics.

  “The press is having a field day with this. You were at the club drunk, and let’s just say your actions were . . . less than admirable. Barrett is downstairs, by the way. He wants to talk to you.”

  Without knowledge of last night, I don’t want to see him. Who knows what happened. What I said to him and everyone else. I’m beyond mortified.

  “Send him home.”

  “I let him in. You both need to put your differences behind you, for the sake of the show. I know Barrett can be a prick at times, but he’s not that bad of a guy.”

  “Not that bad? He made me look bad in front of the entire country. I can’t believe you’re taking his side!”

  “Who’s taking sides? You’re the one who got drunk and out of control last night. If anything the world feels sorry for you.”

  Yeah, that’s just what I need. Sympathy. I’d like to stay off the front page for once. “Uh, uh. No way, everyone can go home.” I chuck a pillow at Chase, pull the blankets up over my head, and lay back down.

  “Trust me; he isn’t going home until he speaks with you. Just talk to him. Just for a moment. We can’t have tension like this on set.”

  Chase pulls my blanket from the bed and holds a hand out to me. After hesitating, I take it and let him pull me up. For the show. My career means the world to me. Without it, I’m a failure. I’m not a genius or street savvy. I can’t do anything else except pretend and look pretty. I wrap my robe around me and follow him downstairs. The same thunderstorm from last night still pours outside, which is great because the dimly lit house helps keep my headache at bay. As I make it to the last step, my eyes center in on him. Barrett.

  His blond hair falls in a mess around one swollen black eye, and he’s dressed in board shorts and a t-shirt. I’m still a little uncertain as to why he’s here so I move closer with caution.

  “Barrett.” My voice is cold.

  “Ginger, baby.”

  I wince, but not only from his words of endearment. My splitting headache has gotten worse at the sound of his voice. My body must know that he’s the one that drives me to drink.

  Chase grabs Quinn by the hand and drags her into the kitchen. “Let’s give them some privacy.”

  “But—” She looks at me as she’s dragged away and gives me this death glare. We both know she hates Barrett, and if I take him back, she won’t be happy. In fact, she’ll hate me.

  “Move the hell over,” I demand as I cautiously sit next to him on the couch. “Fuck, I feel like crap.”

  All I want to do is sleep. The cushions move as Barrett scoots closer to me and slips my feet in his lap.

  “Ginger. About last night.”

  “Whatever happened, I don’t wanna know.”

  “But—.”

  “I said no.”

  “Okay . . . then on a happier note. Do you remember our first date?”

  Now that is a moment I haven’t thought about in years. “Barely, it was almost three years ago. I really don’t wanna think about that right now. Why are you bringing this up?”

  “You were an extra on Timelines. Even from far away, I knew there was something special about you. You were so fuckin’ beautiful. Eighteen, all bright eyed and innocent . . .” He reaches out to stroke my hair. I let him, not having the strength to push him away. Then I remember what he did to me. His betrayal. I quickly cower away from his touch and bring my legs up close to my chest.

  He keeps speaking. “I love you. I have since that moment. I guess I always will.”

  Oh no, here come the water works.

  “Why wasn’t I enough? What’s wrong with me?”

  “Baby, nothing is wrong with you. Everything is wrong with me. I just—I don’t know how to be the man you deserve. I’m self-centered, and I bring everyone down with me.”

  He isn’t even fighting for me, and though I don’t want to be with him, I want him to try. I want him to want me, and feel all the pain I have felt for the past two years. I swallow all the words I want to say and let go instead. I’m in far too much pain to argue.

  “Aren’t you going to tell me how you got that black eye?”

  He chuckles. “Let’s just say . . . you put me in my place.”

  “I would say I’m sorry, but I don’t believe I am.”

  “I deserved it.”

  “Yeah, you kinda did . . .”

  And there’s that awkward silence.

  “Well—”

  “But—”

  The tension is relieved as we both begin to laugh.

  “You first,” I say.

  “Your drinking . . .”

  “Ugh! I know. Don’t you get on me, too.”

  “Fine, fine. I guess I don’t have much room to talk.”

  “You sure don’t. You party just as hard and just as much as me and all of our friends.”

  “I’m just worried about you. You used to hate the stuff, and now it’s every weekend. I know my limits. I don’t think you’re aware of yours. ”

  He’s right. I used to hate the stuff, that is, until I realized how much fun it was. That’s all I’m doing. I’m having fun. There’s nothing wrong with that. I’m not gonna die. I’m not gonna kill anyone. I don’t drink and drive. I sure as hell don’t sleep around.

  “If I had a drinking problem, would I do this?” I stand up a little too fast, but use the couch for support before I stomp in to the kitchen and throw open my liquor cabinet. Without thinking, I unscrew the cap and pour three bottles of vodka, two bottles of whiskey, and a half-empty jar of moonshine down the drain. Quinn and Chase are sitting a few feet away eating a sandwich. Quinn stops mid chew and raises an eyebrow at me. Chase gives me an encouraging nod which I return with a pretentious scowl. I have a few racks of wine in the pantry, but decide not to mention it.

  “No more drinking. Shouldn’t be too hard.” I swallow the panic that billows inside my chest. No more drinking. No more drinking? Can I handle this? After all, drinking is only a habit. A glass of wine with dinner. A martini with the girls. It isn’t a disease.
Not to me. For some people, maybe, but I don’t have a problem.

  “That’s great.” Barrett walks into the room with me and grabs my hand. “If you’re serious about it being over, I deserve it, but as I suggested last night, let’s wait a few weeks to make a public statement. Let’s just pretend that everything is fine. Please, let this whole affair die down. We work together, Ginger. We have to be grownups about this.”

  At the mention of his betrayal, my humiliation to the world, I pull my hand from his grasp.

  “I don’t want to wait. I want to move on from you. We both know how fake relationships turn out!” I point to Quinn and Chase across the room. Chase let the whole world believe he had a pretend relationship with a co-star to promote their movie, but Chloe James turned out to be a psychotic freak. When she found out that Quinn was pregnant, she sold the story to the tabloids and made it seem like Chase had cheated on her. It had almost torn Quinn and Chase apart.

  “Hey, leave us out of this.” Quinn pipes in as she slides a bottle of aspirin across the table.

  “Too late!” I shoot back. I slip the bottle in the front pocket of my robe and turn back toward Barrett, who pushes his hair off his face and sighs.

  “This is different. Are you planning on dating anyone else in the next few weeks?”

  “No.”

  “Then what’s the problem? We issue a public statement after this whole affair thing dies down. Please? My career is already being pissed on by the media. I’m trying to do theater.”

  I throw my hands into the air. “You really expect me to give a damn about your career? What about mine? I’m trying to move on from network television.”

  “Please?”

  I consider his request for another moment. “Is this you or your publicist talking?”

  His eyes roll upwards. “My publicist.”

  “And remind me again why we listen to them?”

  “Because they keep the rumors at bay . . . when needed.”

  “Ugh! Fine. We’ll do this your way, but don’t expect any more favors from me. Now if you guys don’t mind, I have a flight to Nashville in about six hours, and I need to get ready.” I stomp from the room with every intention to start packing, but I stop and listen to them from the hallway.

  “You better not fuck this up again,” Chase demands.

  “I said I was sorry. I’m trying to help her. Why don’t you believe me?” Barrett says, a bit louder. For a moment, I’m embarrassed, listening in on their conversation, but who the hell cares? This is my home.

  “Because I have watched you play with her heart for months!” Quinn shouts out. I can imagine her sticking her finger in his chest as she speaks.

  “I want to help her.”

  “If you want to help her, stay away from her.”

  “Calm down,” Chase tells Quinn. “I think Barrett has learned his lesson.”

  “What? Cause everyone has seen his tiny dick?”

  “Hey, I don’t have a tiny—”

  “Enough! Both of you!” Chase interjects. “This affects more than just us. This is about Ginger and making sure she doesn’t keep drinking. She could ruin her career.”

  “That includes letting her move on with her life,” Quinn says.

  I’ve heard enough. I turn around and climb the stairs back to my room. Is it possible I just screwed myself on this one? Whatever the tabloids are saying about me, I hope it’s good.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I pull off one of my green high heels before rubbing the back of my ankle. There is definitely going to be a blister there tomorrow. Wincing slightly, I put the shoe back on my foot and continue to walk uphill toward my destination. The chilly wind engulfs my small body, and I can only imagine how cold I would be in this tiny dress if I hadn’t already worked up a sweat. I forgot how cold it gets in Tennessee. Ten more blocks. I only have ten more blocks to go. I trudge on, putting one foot in front of the other, careful not to trip on the old, cracked sidewalk. Almost there, Ginger. The thought alone inspires me to keep marching forward. I’m late, but I’ve walked too far to turn back now. I was supposed to meet with the casting director, but my stupid GPS gave me the wrong directions. After paying over thirty dollars to park, and asking the parking attendant if I was in the right place, I soon figured out that I wasn’t anywhere near my intended destination. Not even close.

  With my purse in hand, I hurry through the dirty streets, one eye on the lookout for muggers. I don’t have any more cash to park anywhere else, and I’ll be damned if I’ll walk past that parking attendant again. It’s embarrassing enough that I had to ask for directions. Stupid pride. It’s the story of my life though. When people see me, they automatically assume I’m a ditz. People continuously try to take advantage of me, and most of the time they succeed. But not today. After having the worst week of my life, I’m determined to make today much better.

  A bus speeds past me with curious faces peering out of the window. I am tempted to hop on, but who knows what type of infectious diseases I might catch. Better to be safe than sorry. After another block or so, I stop and pull a hair tie out of my Gucci bag. I twist my long hair up into a high bun. After spending hours washing and rewashing, the bright color has finally faded. My makeup is beginning to melt off, and my short dress has inched dangerously high, but I keep my head up and my eyes locked forward. Who am I kidding? They won’t hire me anyway. After two years in show business, I haven’t gotten anything more than low-budget commercials and a supporting role on a primetime soap opera. I drop my head and bite my lip so that I can suck back a sob. I lean back against a brick wall to catch my breath and regain my composure. I slide down against the brick until my I can lean my face into my knees and take a few deep breaths.

  “What’s a pretty young thing like you doing wandering the streets all alone?” a voice says from beside me. Looking up, I blink against the bright sun to try and find the source. I stand up.

  “Over here.”

  I follow the sound of the voice and spin around to see a lanky guy, a little older than me, sitting on the stoop of an old brick auditorium. My eyes graze his shaggy, dirty blond hair that falls in his eyes and his strong, square jaw. When he smiles, there’s a cute dimple in his left cheek. His eyes are kind, clear blue engulfed with dark lashes. My eyes move downward against his lean chest and tight skinny jeans. As if by instinct, I flash him a flirty grin. Man, this guy is beautiful . . . in a grungy skateboarder kinda way.

  “Just taking a leisurely stroll,” I comment. I examine the cigarette in his hand and wrinkle my nose a bit. He notices my displeasure and quickly smashes the butt under his old Converse. Converse? No, no, no. I quickly talk myself down. He takes a swig of water from a plastic bottle and sets it down on the ground. This guy isn’t cute, he’s shabby. He’s an emo. He’s—and I’m—he isn’t my style at all. Oh, gross. How could I have stooped so low as to even for the briefest moment consider him attractive? I tend to go for more classic, metro-sexual men. Armani suits, expensive cars, slicked back hair and Rolex watches. That’s what turns me on; not smokers with tattoos. Though from what I can see of his, they look quite impressive. A flash of something large on his right bicep, but I can’t make it out. Not wanting to get caught staring, I look up at the bright sky instead. The urge to walk away consumes me, but I need another moment to catch my breath and rest my aching feet. He stands up and walks closer, making my heart pound against my chest. Oh, shit. I stare straight ahead at his old gray tee shirt and black jeans that hug his lean body. He stops right in front of me and rests an arm on the wall behind me to support himself.

  “You look really lost. Need some help?”

  God, that sexy voice. Heat begins to pool between my legs. No, this isn’t a safe position. He’s a stranger! I straighten up and look into his face, that beautiful face. Focus, Ginger!

  “I’m not lost. Would you kindly back off?” I snap.

  Men don’t randomly offer to help women. They always have ulterior motives. They always expect somet
hing in return. He backs up with his hands out in front of him in surrender. His face is sincere, honest. Like I even know what that looks like.

  “Hey, I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m only trying to offer you some local hospitality.”

  I sigh in exasperation and pull my phone out to check the time.

  “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m late for an audition, like it even matters now. I won’t get the job anyway, and your little distraction . . .” I dangle my fingers in the air at him. “It isn’t helping either.”

  “Their loss.” He shrugs while giving me a wide smirk that makes my body tingle.

  He has perfectly straight white teeth. It’s amazing. He has the kind of teeth that only dentist’s kids have. I lean in to get a closer look at his mouth. Stop that! Just look at him. He will use you and throw you away with a broken heart. He isn’t a safe choice.

  “Are you okay?”

  I realize I’m scowling at him, and staring at his teeth like a gawking monkey. I’m tempted to smile, but refuse to. Attraction or no attraction, I’m not about to let him know how affected I am by his presence.

  “I’m fine, thanks for asking. You can go back to . . . whatever it was you were doing.” I wave my hand as if he’s a minion out to do my bidding.

  He laughs, but doesn’t take the hint. “I’m just taking a smoke break between sets. We’re doing a sound check for a show tonight. Hey, you should come check us out.” He motions toward the building beside us, an ancient looking place. Great, he’s a musician. They’re even worse than actors. I raise an uninterested slim brow at him, but don’t say a word.

  “Doesn’t like music, duly noted.” He laughs again. It’s so intoxicating. He articulates all of his syllables, but I can’t pinpoint the accent. His voice isn’t suave or deep. He definitely sings with a wide range, kind of like Ben Gibbard. That’s right; I like music. In fact, I love music and Death Cab for Cutie is one of my favorite bands. I just don’t like the reputation that precedes musicians. I open my mouth to protest, but stop. I don’t need to explain myself to this guy.

  “Thanks for the neighborly concern.” I roll my eyes and wait for him to go back inside, but instead we both anxiously stand there daring the other to walk away first. With a crooked grin plastered upon his devilishly handsome face, he digs into his back pocket to pull out another cigarette. He lights up, but blows the smoke away from me. My nostrils flare, and I have to keep from kneeing him in the balls. How dare he trap me in a corner while he puffs on those death sticks. Such a disgusting habit, if you ask me. After a minute, I give up, push myself off from the wall, and turn my back to him.