Just Physical (25 page)

For once, they had wrapped early, but instead of enjoying her afternoon off, Jill was moping around the house, wandering from room to room without settling anywhere for long.

Tramp followed her and let out a whine as if sensing her restlessness.

She reached down to scratch behind his ears. “It's okay, boy.” Truth be told, nothing was okay. She was still angry—at Crash, but mainly at herself.

Why the hell couldn't she stay away from Crash and avoid all that drama?

She flopped down onto the couch and buried her face in her palms.
You know why.
Despite what she kept telling Crash—and herself—this went way beyond something just physical. She felt herself drawn to Crash, not just in a sexual way. But every time she had almost convinced herself that it was okay to explore what was happening between them, even if just a little, something happened that reminded her why that wasn't a good idea.

The shoelace incident proved that Crash would never see her as an equal partner, especially as the MS progressed, which it most likely would at some point.

An image flashed through Jill's mind—Crash down on one knee, tying her laces for her as if Jill were a helpless child. The memory made her hands clench into fists. She knew Crash had meant well and that she'd hurt her by pushing her away. The memory of the hurt in Crash's eyes and the frustration obvious on her face played on auto-repeat through her mind, but she'd been just as helpless to take it away as she was against her MS.

She couldn't let Crash help her every step of the way. Not if she wanted to be Crash's equal, someone Crash didn't need to take care of. She wouldn't be able to stand it if Crash started treating her the way her parents did. For them, all she seemed to be anymore was a patient, someone with MS.

She jumped up and paced about the living room but didn't find answers to the questions running through her mind. “Maybe I should end it.”

The thought stabbed her with the sharpness of a knife.

Tramp let out a low whine. It didn't sound as if he agreed.

“Oh, yeah, sure. Take her side, traitor.” She scratched him behind one ear again, sank back onto the couch, and pulled her laptop over to check her e-mail.

No message from Crash. Jill's shoulders slumped. She realized how much she had come to look forward to the funny pictures and short messages Crash sometimes sent her.

Now just a new e-mail from her mother sat in her in-box. She clicked on it and scanned it. A long groan escaped her when she saw that it was another link to a website that held information about the latest miracle drug her mother had researched online.

Her mother just didn't get it. Or maybe she didn't want to get it. There was no cure for MS. But her mother kept e-mailing her newspaper clippings or website links about the latest health fad that promised to help MS patients. It was probably her way of dealing with the powerlessness and making herself feel as if she was doing something to help, but to Jill, it was just another painful reminder of her illness.

She left the e-mail in her in-box to answer it later, closed the laptop, and slid down into a lying position. She pressed a sofa pillow onto her face and groaned into it.

Tramp jumped up onto the couch. Normally, he wasn't allowed on the sofa, but now she just didn't have the energy to order him down. His warm body pressed against her legs was comforting.

The pillow still over her face, she had nearly drifted off to an exhausted sleep when the ringing of her cell phone pierced the silence.

With another groan, she lifted the pillow away from her face and debated with herself whether to pick up. She half hoped, half feared that it might be Crash, but the ringtone—ABBA's “Money, Money, Money”—indicated that it was someone from the studio. “Yes?”

“Ms. Corrigan? This is Nancy Abbott.”

Their second AD. Jill sat up.

“I just e-mailed you a copy of the new call sheet for tomorrow,” Nancy said. “We had to move back your call time a little. The stuntwoman can't make it before nine, so how about you be in makeup by seven thirty?”

The stuntwoman? Jill's hazy brain had trouble catching up. “Crash? Uh, I mean, Ms. Patterson?”

“No,” Nancy said. “Her replacement.”

Jill jumped up from the couch so fast that the room started spinning around her. She clutched the back of the couch with one hand, holding on desperately. Had Crash quit her job just because she didn't want to work with her anymore? She couldn't believe Crash would do something like that. “She…she quit?”

“What? Oh, no. It's just for tomorrow. She'll be back the day after. Ben just thought it might be better not to let her handle the debris scene with her hand.”

Jill tightened her grip on the couch. Why was Nancy suddenly talking in riddles? “With her hand?” she repeated. “What's wrong with her hand?” An image of Crash's hands—strong and tan and gentle—flashed through her mind. She shook it off so she could focus on the conversation.

“Oh. I thought you knew.”

“Knew what?” Jill's impatience grew, and she had to force herself not to shout at the second assistant director. “What's going on?”

“Uh, there was an accident on the second-unit set this afternoon, and—”

“What?” Her legs gave out, dropping Jill back onto the couch.

Tramp immediately put his muzzle onto her knee and looked up at her with his soulful brown eyes. A low whine rose up his chest.

Jill put her hand on his head to silence him. “What happened?” she asked, raising her voice so she could hear herself over the thumping of her heart. “How bad is it?”

“It's not that bad, really. Just a cut from the glass, as far as I know.”

Her vivid imagination showed her images of jagged glass shards tearing through Crash's wrist and an artery spurting blood. Queasiness hit her. She mentally gave herself a good shake and took a steadying breath.
Calm down, will you? If it were that bad, she wouldn't be back on set the day after tomorrow.

“Ms. Corrigan? You still there?”

Jill took a steadying breath. “I'm here. I'll take a look at the new call sheet.”

“Good. Thanks. Let me know if you need a driver to pick you up.”

Nancy always asked, and Jill's answer was always the same. “No. I'll drive myself.”

“Okay. Good night, then.”

“Good night.” Jill dropped the cell phone onto the couch. “She'll be fine,” she whispered into the room. Crash had probably sustained worse injuries in her line of work.

But as much as she wanted, Jill couldn't turn off her worries. She wouldn't be able to relax until she'd seen Crash for herself.

Decision made, she jumped up, grabbed her car keys, and rushed to the door as fast as she could.

Tramp bounded after her.

Within a minute, they were on their way to Los Feliz.

Crash had just returned from her visit to the ER when the doorbell rang. Expecting either her friend TJ or some studio clerk sent over to fill out an accident report, she headed to the intercom. “Yes?”

For a moment, all she heard was static. Then someone—a woman—cleared her throat. “Um, Crash?”

“Jill? What are you doing here?” Crash stared at the intercom as if that would reveal the answer.

“I… The second AD called because of tomorrow's call time.”

“And?” Crash asked, not bothering to sound friendly. After the day she'd had, her emotions were just too raw.

Another moment of silence. “Can I come up? I think we should talk.”

Crash ran her unhurt hand through her hair. She was tempted to send her away, but if Jill was finally ready to act like an adult, she didn't want to be the childish one. Without answering, she pressed the buzzer and automatically looked around her studio apartment while she waited for Jill to make it up to the second floor.

A dumbbell lay on the kitchen counter, and her sneakers and socks formed a path from the door to the couch. She moved to pick them up but then stopped.

She hadn't invited Jill over, so her surprise guest would just have to deal with the mess. But she couldn't resist moving to the door and peeking through the peephole, watching Jill approach. The sight of Jill in a spaghetti-strap top nearly made her smile. She gritted her teeth and tried to hold on to her anger as she swung the door open.

Tramp rushed up to her, wagging not just his tail but his entire rear end. He jumped around Crash excitedly and tried to lick her hands.

“Tramp! No!” Jill pulled him back before he could get to Crash's injured hand. She stood in the doorway and stared at the gauze pad that the doctor had taped over the stitched-up cut. A bit of iodine-stained skin peeked out from beneath the dressing. “Is it bad?”

The concern in her voice made it hard to stay annoyed with her—as did the jean shorts she was wearing. “Nah,” Crash said. “Just three stitches.”

“Stitches are bad in my books.”

Crash shrugged. “I've had worse.”

They stood facing each other across the doorjamb.

Jill shuffled her feet. “Can I come in? I won't stay long. I just want to…” She lowered her gaze and stared at her feet, which admittedly looked pretty cute in a pair of strappy sandals.

Crash steeled her resolve to stay angry. “You want to do what? Hand out another lecture about me breaking the rules?”

“No, I…” Jill's gaze veered up, then back down. “I just wanted to make sure you're okay.”

“I'm fine.” Against her will, her tone softened a bit. Jill's concern for her felt good. She sighed. “Come on in.”

As if understanding the invitation, Tramp bustled past them into the apartment. He started sniffing and exploring the room as if he hadn't been there before.

When they settled on opposite ends of the sofa, Tramp trotted over, proudly presenting the sock he held in his mouth. He shook it and then offered Jill one end for a game of tug.

“Tramp, no! Drop it!” Jill pointed to the floor.

Clamping his canines down on the sock, Tramp tilted his head and gave her a pitiful look.

“Drop it!” Jill stabbed her finger in the direction of the floor more energetically.

Tramp dropped his bounty and retreated.

Crash bent and picked up the soggy, ripped article of clothing, pinching it between thumb and index finger of her uninjured hand. “You owe me a new pair of socks.”

Jill took a deep breath and finally lifted her gaze to meet Crash's. “I also owe you an apology.”

Crash sucked in a breath. She hadn't expected that. But then again, Jill rarely did what people expected of her.

“One second.” Jill jumped up to rescue the second sock and Crash's sneakers from Tramp before returning to the couch. She shifted as if she couldn't find a comfortable spot and clutched the sneakers as if they were a lifeline. Finally, she peeked over at Crash. “I…I overreacted earlier. I mean, I stand behind what I said, but I shouldn't have been such a bitch about it. I should have found another way to let you know I don't want to be coddled.”

“Coddled?” Crash echoed. “I tied your shoelaces for you because you were wearing a corset. That's hardly coddling.”

“It is when you're fighting for your independence every day,” Jill said quietly but firmly. “Has Nancy ever asked you if you want someone to pick you up and bring you to the set?”

“Uh, no, but that's just a common courtesy to actresses.”

“Not if she offers because she thinks you shouldn't be allowed to drive yourself,” Jill said. “Have you ever been forbidden from doing even the simplest stunts because everyone is afraid that you might trip and hurt yourself?”

“No. Jill—”

“Have your colleagues ever vacated their chairs for you as soon as you enter a room, as if you're eighty years old and can't be on your feet for even a minute?”

Crash held up her hands. “Okay, I get it.”

“Do you?” Jill's gaze drilled into her.

Crash started to nod but then paused. “I don't know if anyone who doesn't have a chronic illness can understand completely, but I'm really trying. I didn't tie your laces for you because I was coddling you or thought you couldn't do it yourself. I'd like to think I would have done it even if you were perfectly healthy.”

Jill clamped her teeth around her bottom lip, a deep sadness darkening her eyes to a murky olive color instead of the vivid green Crash was used to. “I guess we'll never know.”

Sudden anger bubbled up in Crash. “Would it be so bad if I tied your laces because your hands are giving you trouble? I wouldn't think anything of it if you tied my shoelaces because I can't do it with my stitched-up hand. How is me helping you any different from you coming over to make sure I didn't hurt my hand too badly?”

“I… I don't know. It just is.”

“Now there's a mature response,” Crash muttered.

Jill's jaw muscles bunched. “Your hand will heal, Crash. The MS won't—ever. If anything, it will only get worse. That's the difference.”