Say It Sexy (3 page)

Forcing myself to move, I turned to the girls. “Ladies, that was amazing. Thank you.”

Angela propped herself on her elbows. “There’s more where that came from,” she purred.

Suddenly, Tucker banged on the door. “Garrick,” he slurred. “Come take birthday shots with us. Before Liam passes out. Come on, bro…dry your dick and get out here.”

I scrambled up to get dressed, ready to forget all that haunted me with the help of my friends and a lot of shots. The niggling feeling that I was pathetic pestered me, and I fought to push it out of my head. I don’t know what more I wanted, but I was inexplicably flooded with a desperate certainty that it wasn’t this.

Gwen

When I woke, I knew immediately by the feel of my luxurious bedding that I was in my old bedroom. Even the air was the perfect temperature, as if the universe somehow knew being too hot or too cold was unacceptable for those who were rich enough. Another clue was the smell of fresh flowers, which Matilda, my parents’ housekeeper, always replenished in the crystal vase on my nightstand. My childhood home was a lot like Cinderella’s glass slipper: It was magical and I was lucky to have it and the privileged life it represented, yet it was also an illusion. Most people couldn’t look beyond its outward beauty to see the imperfections.

I don’t mind imperfections. They make us interesting. Stronger. They make life—and love—real because they test our mettle.

It’s glass slippers and Prince Charming rescuing Cinderella that’s the stuff of fairytales. Cinderella would have been better off telling her evil stepmother to go fuck herself and striking out on her own.

With a shake of my head, I giggled.

God, it was a good thing I was an actress considering I had such a flare for the dramatic. Luckily, I didn’t have to deal with an evil stepmother. My parents loved me, and they loved each other. Yes, my dad could be majorly controlling, and sometimes exhibited a temper, but he was always there for me when I needed him.

I stretched before getting out of bed, then brushed my teeth and, still in my pajamas, headed downstairs. Gray morning sun spilled in from the skylight, illuminating my way down the gleaming wood staircase. Yawning, my lungs made a lazy grab for clear headedness. When I reached the bottom landing, my feet found warm wood, courtesy of the heated floors.

“Good morning, Gwendolyn,” Mom said as I rounded the corner into the gourmet kitchen. In her ruffled apron, pearls, and tidy chignon, she stood near the stove, dicing fresh strawberries and bananas. Eggs over-easy sizzled in the frying pan, which was incredibly strange. My mom didn’t cook. We had a personal chef for that.

“Would you mind starting the espresso maker?” She pouted. “We’re out of tea packets.”

“Sure.” Blinking through my fugue of confusion, I turned toward the counter by the sink and stared at the contraption next to it. Hadn’t there been a juicer there last night? I crossed to the machine, plucked a brewing canister from the display rack, inserted it and switched the machine on. “Dad gets back from his conference on Friday, doesn’t he?”

“I never left,” boomed a voice from behind me.

I spun around, confronted by the regal, hulking image of my father dressed in a tailored suit. He towered over both my mom and me. Even at fifty, he was muscular and strong, and if it weren’t for his shock of silver hair, he’d probably pass for ten years younger.

“What are you wearing, Gwendolyn?” he demanded.

Puzzled, since my parents had bought my floral flannel pajamas for me last Christmas, I took a gander at my attire. Shock swept through me as I realized that, instead of the pajamas I’d just been wearing, I now wore the equivalent of Cinderella’s rags before they had been transformed into a ballgown: a lilac dress, the skirt smudged with grass stains where I had knelt to help Sean to his feet. He had picked me up for prom hours ago. We had been thirty minutes late getting home and Dad had been waiting on the porch with his hands in well-prepared fists.

“I asked what you’re wearing?” Dad repeated, his voice diving into the heavily graveled growl it took on before one of his bouts of hollering. I rounded on my mother for help. She stood unfazed and, thanks to a glossy red ribbon threaded through her lips, absolutely silent. A beeping noise swam into my ears. The espresso must be done.

A strange tingling sensation seized my right hand.

When I looked back at the espresso maker, it transformed into the juicer, and my hand, now a bloody crooked stump, was jammed inside.

I screamed, pulled my hand out, and turned to flee, but I couldn’t. I was surrounded on all sides by the pulpy, noxious walls of a rotting pumpkin. Vicious nasty rats, not cute little Disney mice, crawled over my bare feet and up my limbs. Panicked, I swatted at them, but couldn’t stop them from scurrying under my dress. Ripping through my chest, the rats tore into my heart and—

With a stifled scream, I sat up, frantically searching my surroundings. Fine linens, check. Crystal vase, check. I fumbled to turn off the beeping alarm next to my bed, but my heart continued to pound frantically as I realized I’d been dreaming but I
was
in my old room in my parents’ house. Why? I’d gotten my own place over two months ago.

For several seconds I feared it had
all
been a dream, not just me getting my hand pulverized in a juicer and attacked by rats, but me having actually moved out on my own. Chest heaving, I tried to catch my breath.

The more time that passed, the more my senses came back to me. Finally, I remembered that yes, I now rented my own place. I’d merely spent the night because I was leaving town in a few days to begin filming in New Mexico, and my parents had wanted to spend some extra time with me. Last night we’d had dinner at the Club then afterward Dad and I had run lines.

But I didn’t live here anymore. Hopefully, as much as I loved my parents, I never would again. I was just beginning to get used to being free of my dad’s constant scrutiny and well-meaning lectures. To not feeling like I was going to disappoint him every time I picked out an outfit myself or talked to a boy.

Instinctively, I glanced at my nightstand where I’d placed the five-year-old prom picture of Sean and me. I don’t know why I kept it. It was a memento of a night no one would want to remember. Not because I hadn’t had a good time at prom, but because of what had come after.

Police had set up a DUI checkpoint along the highway, funneling traffic into two lanes, and Sean had been thirty minutes late getting me home. My father had been waiting up for us. He didn’t give us time to explain. The second Sean had stepped out of his Corvette, Dad knocked him on his ass. Sean fought back for the first few punches while I shrieked for them to stop, but I knew, even as captain of the wrestling team, he didn’t stand a chance against a man who’d once been crowned Mr. Universe.

While Mom stayed inside, watching from the frosted foyer window with her robe clutched closed, Dad accused Sean and me of having sex and promised to sue him for every penny he possessed if a child came from our "irresponsible union." I had never been so mortified. Sean and I had dated for two years, but after that night, he broke things off. Outside of the handful of days we had left in high school, I never saw Sean again.

That was the day I learned that I wasn’t worth fighting for, that no boy or man would ever be strong enough to stand by me—not against my father, who stood as the contemporary version of a giant and a dragon in one exceptionally intimidating human-shaped body. And not against other hardships that life was bound to throw my way.

At least I thought I’d learned that lesson.

Until I’d been weak and Randall Stone had taught me the lesson all over again.

* * *

After attending Sunday morning church service with my parents, surviving one of Dad’s well-meaning pep-talks slash lectures during brunch, and promising (again) to stay out of trouble in New Mexico, I was comfortably seated in the back of one of his Lexuses and being driven home. As ridiculous as it was that he still insisted his driver transport me to and from his house or work, I didn’t fight him. In my mind, I’d already won the most important battle, which had been convincing my father to let me move out in the first place. My winning strategy had been telling him I wanted to immerse myself in the role of Lacey on
Straightlaced
, the new television show that Fluidity Films was producing with Sun Studio.

My dad was a co-owner and executive producer at Fluidity. Unfortunately, the production company had become a bit of a joke in the film industry due to some seriously unsuccessful films. My dad was counting on
Straightlaced
—and thus, me—to turn Fluidity’s reputation around. When I’d told him moving out on my own was vital to getting into the head of my character—who had also just moved out on her own—Dad had hesitated, but had eventually given in.

I’d been enjoying the heck out of my newfound freedom ever since. Not that I was partying every night or anything. I was serious about my career and saving the reputation of my dad’s production company. But it was nice to finally be out on my own.

Thomas, an older gentleman who’d worked for my family since I was ten, pulled into Ventura Breezes with its towering palms and bright hibiscus landscaping. He slowed the car just enough to wave at the gate security and be let through.

“It’s the next right,” I told him, taking in the pretty neighborhood I’d moved into just two months ago. It was a huge matter of pride for me that I was paying for my rent with my own money. I’d been a working actress long enough that I didn’t need my father to support me any longer, at least financially.

“I know where you live, Miss Gwen,” Thomas chuckled under his breath, his dark eyes smiling at me in the rearview mirror.

“Sorry, I know you do. Can you tell my father you walked me in but just leave me at the door, please? This is a highly secure neighborhood, and besides, my roommate will be waiting, so it’s okay. Really.”

“Yes, Miss Gwen. But if anything happens…”

“I’ll tell him it was my fault,” I interjected. Anything to keep Dad calm, relaxed, and believing that everything was okay, something that had become harder since he had found out about my relationship with Randall Stone six months ago, just after the fourth of July.

Randall had been my romantic lead on the set of
Diamond Eyes,
and he’d been the first man I’d risked getting involved with since Sean all those years ago. It wasn’t difficult to see why I’d fallen for him—he was older, smart, sophisticated, and handsome—he’d also been a married man and had snowed me into believing he was legally separated and soon to be signing divorce papers when the truth was his wife had just gotten pregnant with baby number three. I hadn’t slept with Randall, but I’d gotten damn close, and it had almost killed me when I realized what a cliché I’d been.

When my father found out, he’d almost had a heart attack—literally. My mom had called an ambulance and everything. Thankfully, he’d been okay, and afterward he’d spent an insane amount of money paying people off to stay quiet—including Randall himself—in order to protect my reputation and thus my career. After I accepted the role in
Straightlaced
, my stint on
Diamond Eyes
had ended with my character being killed off two weeks before Christmas. Now, almost a month later, my dad followed every move I made with an even closer eye than he had before. Not ideal, but still… My father had stuck by me. He always had. It made me feel like the worst daughter ever to think my foolishness had landed him in the hospital. From now on, I was going to make things easier on him, not harder.

As Thomas reached 108 Malibu Way, a cute yellow home with white shutters, window flower boxes, and my pure white VW EOS Convertible sitting in the driveway, I had to stop myself from clapping my hands. It may not have been a ten-bedroom estate with maid and guest quarters like the house I grew up in, but it was mine.

I got out the back and closed the door, leaning into Thomas’s open window. “Thank you, Thomas.”

“Anything to see that pretty smile, Miss Gwen.”

I pulled out the keys from my purse. “Bye.”

Entering the house through the side door, I heard the din of dishes in the sink coming from the kitchen. “In here!” Violet called, her voice like pure sunshine to match the house.

My father had made it very clear that the only way I could live on my own was if I had a roommate, and even she had to be pre-approved. Luckily, I was still best friends with my high school buddy, Violet, who had mentioned needing a roommate before I even told her I might be looking for one.

All in all, it was the perfect match, and I couldn’t be happier.

Violet stood at the kitchen sink, washing her NutriBullet free of kale and cucumber residue. I didn’t have to see it closely to know that’s what was in it. It was all she’d been having for lunch and dinner for a week now. “Lost eight pounds,” she sang, pumping a fist in the air.

“That’s awesome. Go, you. So what’s this week gonna be, moving up to carrots and fruit?” I laughed, plopping my purse into the counter stool.

She set the dishes to dry and wiped her hands. “Actually, yes. Though carrots have way too much sugar, but my friend’s mom insists it’s packed with every nutrient a person ever needs to live, so I’m gonna give it a shot.”