Damaged In-Law (7 page)

“Nah,” I assure her, as we make our way to the school
parking lot, “I
’
m more of a
Julius Caesar
girl
myself. The whole star-crossed lover thing isn
’
t really my
scene.”

“Not even with Jack playing Romeo?” she whispers
conspiratorially, as we head for the car we share—a red VW Bug. Our matching
eyes lock, and I see at once that the jig is up. “You didn
’
t
honestly think your crush was a secret from me, did you?” Avery goes on.

“
I...I don’
t...” I sputter, sinking
into the driver
’
s seat. “Is it really that obvious?”

“Only to your dearest, darling sister, I promise. I mean, I
can basically read your mind,” she shrugs.

“Right,” I say faintly, as she settles into the passenger
seat. “It doesn
’
t bother you, does it? My sorta having a
thing for Jack?”

“Of course not,” she tells me. “Jack and I are just buddies.
You know that. He
’
s never been my type. I mean, he doesn
’
t even have
one
tattoo. Plus, he
’
s
actually
nice
to me, so there
’
s no way I could ever
be into him, romantically speaking. You should tell him how you feel.”

“I could never do that,” I say quickly, shaking my head.

“And why not?” she asks.

“Because he
’
d never be interested in me
that way,” I tell her frankly.

“Huh,” Avery says, cocking her head at me, “That
’
s weird. I never realized before that you
’
re
totally,
completely
blind. You think I would have noticed a thing like
that...”

“Let
’
s just drop this, OK?” I sigh. “It
’
s not gonna happen. End of story.”

“We
’
ll see,” Avery smiles, turning to
look out the window.

“So. How would you like to celebrate your soon-to-be star
turn?” I ask her, eager to change the subject. “Want to swing home to tell
Howard and Sylvia, or—?”

“No fucking way,” she snaps, her voice icing over. “Mom
’
s throwing one of her bougie little luncheons at the house even
as we speak.”

“Seriously?” I scoff, “What for, this time?”

Avery is silent for a long moment, steeling herself. “To
mark the ten year anniversary of Dad and Mr. Hellman starting their own firm.”

My fingers tighten around the steering wheel. “They
’
re throwing a party for Daryl Hellman. At our house,” I say
slowly, my voice dripping with contempt.

“Yep,” Avery says, refusing to meet my eye.

I wish I could say I was surprised by my parents
’
actions. But this kind of audacity is par for the course with
them. After all, they refused to listen to Avery when she tried to tell them
about Daryl Hellman
’
s indiscretions. Instead of taking
their daughter seriously when she confided in them about the disgusting things
he
’
d said and done to her as a little kid, our parents
insisted that she wasn
’
t remembering correctly, that she
making up stories for the sake of getting more attention.

I
’
m not sure I
’
ll
ever be able to forgive them for that.

“You know, Ave,” I say softly, “We
’
re
eighteen now. We wouldn
’
t even have to emancipate
ourselves to move out of their house. We could just go. You and me.”

“
Move out?
” Avery asks, turning to me
with wide eyes, “And go where, exactly?”

“Wherever we wanted,” I say, “I
’
ve been
thinking about it a lot, lately. I think it
’
s past time we
were free of them. After the way they treated you, when you finally told them
about...I can see how much it hurt you. Maybe it would be better if we just set
out on our own together, away from them. You could finally get the help you
need, and—”

“Callie,” Avery cuts me off, “I wouldn
’
t
know the first thing about living on my own.”

“You wouldn
’
t be on your own,”
I insist,
“You
’
d be with me.”

“Please,” she shoots back, “You
’
re
starting college in the fall. You can
’
t be taking care of
your wreck of a sister and triple majoring, or whatever.”

“You
’
re not a wreck, Avery,” I say
forcefully, “You just haven
’
t had any support in dealing
with—”

“Stop it,” she says, “
I don’
t want to talk
about this. I
’
m not ready to be out in the real world,
Cal. Not yet. No matter how badly Mom and Dad have messed things up. I
’
ve got the rest of my life to figure my shit out,” a slow smile
spreads across her face, “But I
’
ve only got
one
shot at playing Juliet. Right?”

“Sure,” I sigh, my heart clenching painfully in my chest,
“Whatever you say, Ave.”

Chapter Six

New York City

Present Day

“Christ. Is
everyone
who drives a car in Manhattan an
absolute lunatic?” I seethe, holding onto my steering wheel for dear life. I
’
ve been easing my Toyota through rush hour traffic in the
middle of New York City—not something I
’
d recommend for
anyone lacking nerves of steel, a love of impotent road rage, or a death wish.

Even though I live just a train ride away from New York
these days, I don
’
t often find myself traipsing around the
city that never sleeps. I tried to do the whole penniless bohemian artist
thing, just after I graduated from college. I shared a microscopic two bedroom
with three other girls, auditioned for super low-budget, experimental plays,
and dated a bunch of dreadful creative man-children. All told, I was miserable
in New York.

My saving grace back then was being accepted into a
low-residency creative writing master
’
s program. I got to
live wherever I wanted while getting my advanced degree, and I discovered very
quickly that NYC was not where I wanted to be if I had my druthers. I said
goodbye to the Gotham rat race and settled down on the Hudson River, in the
little apartment I still have today. The city is still a great place to visit,
but I can
’
t imagine living here again. Not unless I woke
up tomorrow morning with a million dollar salary, that is.

I pull off the main downtown drag of Houston Street and find
myself cruising through the fashionable neighborhood of SoHo. I shot Jack an
email yesterday, agreeing to come have a drink with him at his New York City
hotel. He provided me with an address, and here I am—rolling to a stop in front
of the place he
’
s staying. As I step out of my beat up car
and look up at the building before me, a low whistle escapes my lips.

“Damn, Jack,” I mutter, gaping up at the hotel, “Way to make
a girl feel underdressed.”

The building is a brand new high rise, towering over the
more antiquated SoHo shops and apartment buildings. Above the entryway, the
hotel
’
s name is spelled out in sturdy, industrial letters:
“The Rogue”.
How appropriate
, I think to myself, recalling Jackson
’
s newfound movie star swagger.

The exterior of The Rogue Hotel is sleek and modern, not a
single gratuitous touch. Climbing the front steps, I run a nervous hand through
my tousled blonde waves. It
’
s been a very long time since
I
’
ve stepped foot in a chic establishment like this, and I
hope I blend in with the locals. I chose an emerald green cocktail dress for
the evening, a slinky number with an extremely low-cut back. My makeup is a
touch on the smoky side, and I
’
m rocking my highest pair
of black stilettos. I know it
’
s crazy, but I couldn
’
t resist dressing up a little for Jackson Cole. Even if there
’
s no way in hell this meeting could be considered a date. 

Stepping into The Rogue, I see that the interior is every bit
as impeccable as I would have imagined. There are no frills or fussy touches,
just smoothed natural surfaces and sharp corners, soft light and absolutely
gorgeous people everywhere. I feel a pang of self-consciousness, wondering
whether or not I stick out like a sore thumb among the elegant guests. All the
local bars in my Hudson Valley town serve margaritas out of mason jars and
specialize in Pickleback shots. Not exactly high-brow fare.

Just be cool, Benson,
I coach myself, making my way
toward the hotel bar across the lobby.
If you could make it through your
debutante season without falling flat on your face, you can absolutely handle
this.

The bar is dimly lit by glowing Edison bulbs and pulsing
with murmured conversation. A long, polished slab of cherry wood serves as the
bar proper, and my eyes grow wide as they run along the glamorous patrons lined
up there. As my gaze alights on the fine figure perched on the very last bar
stool, I feel myself wavering on my sky high heels.

Jackson Cole is sitting in profile, gazing away across the
bar with a look of assured purpose on his face. His sculpted features are
illuminated in the smoldering glow of the hanging lights, but most noticeable
of all are those gleaming blue eyes of his. In this moment, I feel like I
’
m seeing him the way his fans see him—carved out of marble,
slightly more than human,
perfect
. A far cry from the very real boy I
knew, once upon a time. But as if he can sense my gaze on him, he turns to face
me, and the heady spell is broken. It
’
s just Jack sitting
there.
My
Jack. I have nothing to be worried about, here.

“Wow,” he says by way of greeting as I join him at the bar.

“If you say I ‘clean up good,
’
I
swear...” I tell him warningly.

“Since when can you read my mind?” he grins, letting his
eyes trail down the length of my body. “Can I at least say that that you look
great tonight, instead?”

“Only if I can say ‘right back at you,
’”
I
smile, feeling the heat of his gaze like a physical force. “This whole
Hollywood thing is treating you well, huh?”

“I have no complaints,” he says, signaling for the
bartender. His eyes never leave me for a second. Honestly, he looks a bit
amazed to see me here. “
Sorry, I don’
t mean to stare,” he
laughs.
Now
who
’
s the one reading minds? “I
’
m just sort of surprised that you came.”

“Well. You asked me to,” I shrug, secretly pleased to see
him taken off guard.

“Right,” he grins, shifting his body a hair closer to mine.
I feel my every cell responding to the tiniest move he makes. “
But
still. I
’
m really glad you decided to show. And
look, you made it through the drive in one piece.”

“Just barely,”
I chuckle.
“Why didn
’
t you find a hotel somewhere closer to Westchester, if you just
came for Avery
’
s service?”

“Well, I didn
’
t just hop over to the
East Coast for the service,” Jack informs me as the man behind the bar appears.
“We
’
re shooting here in New York for a couple of months.”

“Who
’
s ‘we
’
?” I
ask, “And shooting what?”

But instead of elaborating, Jack holds up a hand to stop my mouth
and turns his attention to the bartender. I feel my jaw fall open at the
dismissive gesture. It
’
s the sort of thing my dad used to
do to my mom, to shut her up. And, come to think of it, what Jack
’
s
dad must have done to his mom, too. All our parents bought into the same
stereotypical gender roles in our families. I feel my hackles rising. And that
’
s even before he goes on to say, “I
’
ll
have another whiskey neat. Bring the lady a glass of Rosé.”

“Actually,” I say, catching the bartender before he goes, “I
’
ll have a vodka tonic. But you can charge him for the wine too,
if you like.” Jack raises an eyebrow at me, his expression more condescending
than amused. “I
’
ve been ordering for myself for years,
Jack,” I inform him, leaning my elbows on the bar, “
I don’
t
need you to start doing it for me now. Especially if you
’
re
not going to get my drink right.”

“Fair enough,” he shrugs, shaking off my complaint. “I didn
’
t realize you were such a
modern
women, Cal.”

“Only you could make the word ‘modern
’
sound
like an insult,” I mutter, looking away.

We sit in silence for a moment as the bartender makes our
drinks and slides them our way. I take a grateful sip of my cocktail, wondering
how we
’
ve already managed to get off on the wrong foot, me
and Jack. As kids, he was someone I could always count on to see through the
shittier aspects of our privileged upbringing—the haughtiness, the arrogance,
the disdain of anyone who didn
’
t fit the upper-class bill.
I would have thought that spending a few years as a struggling actor would be
enough to humble him. But now that he has money of his own, is he really just
going to be become like our parents after all? That would be so damn
disappointing.

“So. How have your last eight years been?” I ask wryly,
unsure of how to cut the tension between us.

“I thought you
’
d already be caught up,
since you spend so much time reading up on me,” Jack teases, his crooked grin
snagging at my heartstrings. I can already feel my frustration with him ebbing
away.

“Ha, ha,” I reply, rolling my eyes. “You caught me. I
’
ve actually been the president of the Official Jackson Cole Fan
Club this whole time. I was particularly impressed by your three-line
appearance on Law and Order. Plus your featured extra stint in that shitty
Russell Crowe movie. Really amazing work. Oscar-level stuff.”

“Go ahead, take all your shots,” Jack replies, “I know I don
’
t have any super-impressive credits yet. But my career is just
about to take off. Everyone
’
s gotta start somewhere,
Callie.”

“Don
’
t I know it,” I murmur, sipping my
drink. At least Jack
has
an acting career. My dreams of being a
performer withered and died after the few off-off-Broadway plays I was in after
college—non-paid gigs that no one saw and left me no time to earn rent on the
side. I realized pretty quickly that the hustle of the actor
’
s
life was not going to be for me, no matter how much I loved performing. Hence,
my shift to creative writing. “You
’
ve got me curious
though,” I go on, “What is this career-making moment you
’
re
about to have? What are you here in New York to shoot?”

“Actually,” Jack says, fixing his bottomless eyes on mine,
“We
’
re still working on the film that Avery was supposed
to appear in. You know the one.”

“Oh...” I reply, “I figured that was all wrapped up. I mean,
it has to be, right? Given the, uh, circumstances.”

“
Well...
” Jack says, sipping his
whiskey, “Not exactly. That
’
s actually what I wanted to
talk to you about tonight.”

I feel my heart starting to sink. There was such urgency in
Jack
’
s voice when he asked me to meet him here, last night
on the balcony. I thought he may have wanted to talk about something
more...personal. Something about us. But really, he just wants to talk shop?
What could he possibly need to talk to
me
for? I don’
t
know anything at all about movies.

“Um. OK, I
’
m all ears.” I say slowly,
trying not to let myself get distracted by how well Jack
’
s
coal black blazer is cut to his defined biceps. I
’
m not
the only one in the bar noticing how good he looks, either. Men and women
around the room sneak glances at Jack whenever he looks away. I
’
ve
even spotted a couple of not-so-discreet iPhone photographers snapping pictures
of him since I sat down. Damn...I guess he
is
getting to be something of
a celebrity these days. That
’
ll take some getting used to.
That is, if I ever see him again after tonight. The very thought of this being
our last interaction makes my heart ache.

“Ah, shit,” Jack chuckles roughly, rubbing his scruffy jaw.
“Gotta be honest here, Callie. I was kinda hoping for a little more small talk
before the main event. Don
’
t you have a cat you can show
me pictures of for a while? Or some crocheting habit you can bore me to tears
about before I get down to it?”

I roll my eyes at his single-lady assumptions. “Nope. No
cats or crocheting. Sorry to disappoint you. Looks like you
’
ve
got to nut up and say what
’
s on your mind, Cole.”

His eyes widen in surprise at my tone. I wonder if people
have stopped taking him to task when he acts like an asshole. Is that what
happens when you get even a little bit famous?

“Alright. Fine,” he says, turning to face me. The perfect
contours of his face are almost too much for me to handle, straight on. I angle
myself away from him toward the bar, anxiously sipping my cocktail. “You ready
for the whole scoop?” he asks.

“As ready as I
’
ll ever be,” I shrug.