The Redhead Plays Her Hand (Redhead #3)(17)
Author: Alice Clayton

“Yep, keeping it pretty short. The other grunts too,” he explained, again with that London accent meeting Alabama in the cutest way. He moved his head a few times, trying to get settled.

“Settle down there, squirmy.”

“Grace, don’t take this the wrong way, but your hip . . .”

I froze midsuck. “My hip?” I asked around my caramel.

“It’s, well, it’s not as comfortable as it used to be.” He frowned, his hand now spanning my hip and gripping it tightly.

“You see any potted plants around here? Mama’s been working out.” I grinned proudly, smacking at my candy.

“Grace, come on.” He laughed, switching positions so he could push me back against the pillows and get some boob time. “Thank goodness you two haven’t changed,” he whispered to the girls.

I swatted at his head. “You’re twisted, Hamilton.”

“I’m serious. Don’t go overboard here, okay?”

“I’m not going overboard. It’s called taking direction,” I insisted as he settled against me.

He ran his hands over my tummy, flatter than it had ever been.

“Love, you look amazing, but you always look amazing. I just don’t want you to get carried away with this.”

He really didn’t get this.

“Why did you have me cut your hair?” I asked, stilling his hand.

“What?”

“No, really, why did I cut your hair?”

“Because the part called for it,” he admitted, his eyes growing serious.

“Exactly. This is the same thing. So drop it, okay?” I huffed, sitting up and shrugging into my top.

“Cutting your hair and losing a ridiculous amount of weight when you don’t need to are two very different things, Grace,” he insisted, trying to pull me back into bed.

“You’re right. They’re two very different things because there are two very different standards, aren’t there?” I picked up the latest crop of magazines with him on the cover and threw them down onto the bed. As they scattered, shots of him peeked up at us. He looked drunk in most of them: leaving different clubs with the guys from his film, ball cap on, ripped T-shirt. He looked beautiful, of course, but the fact was, he was decidedly un–movie star in each shot.

“See that! Dirty shirt, half drunk, looking like you haven’t slept in weeks, and what’s the headline? ‘Sexy Scientist Jack Hamilton Parties with Bad Boy Adam Kasen!’ Can you imagine what the headline would be if I were out with you looking like that? ‘Jack Hamilton and Homeless Older Woman Out on the Town.’ ‘Jack Hamilton and Insane Woman Go to Biker Bar.’ I’d never get away with it. So think about that next time you complain about my bony hips. Bony hips are in my contract.” I turned away from him, as I could feel the tears beginning to form, and focused on putting on my skirt.

Where the hell did that come from?

Head rush from the hard candy?

I could hear him getting out of the bed and coming up behind me. I let him pull me back against him, mirroring our earlier position but in much different circumstances.

“Sorry, Nuts Girl, you’re totally right. It’s wrong that it’s like this, but you’re totally right. You do what you need to do. I’m behind you one hundred percent,” he whispered, slipping his hands around my middle and squeezing tight. I sighed, leaning back into him, feeling him wrap around me.

“I’m figuring this out as I go, Jack, ya know?” I whispered back.

“I know.”

I spun around in his arms. “It’s not like there’s a manual, how to handle life in Hollywood.” I sniffed back the few tears that had managed to make their way to the surface.

“Oh, I don’t know. I think Holly has at least half that manual written already. She sure has plenty to say about these pictures.” He nodded toward the magazines.

“Oh, I have plenty to say too, pretty boy. Don’t think I haven’t noticed all the partying you’ve been doing.”

He looked a little ashamed, and once again I was reminded how young he was.

“It’s under control. Don’t worry,” he soothed.

Not possible.

As that week passed, it became evident that things were most certainly not under control. Jack stayed in town, but I was busy on set most of the week, as we raced to get as much shot as we could so the show could premiere in the summer instead of the fall. The scenes were stacking up, and while it was going by fast, I took time each day to sit and think about how far I’d come. I was really enjoying the work—the actual work that went into putting a show together like this. Working closely with the other actors, developing a shorthand with the cast and the crew, bringing this character to life, and watching as the others did as well.

And as I worked, Jack played. Sure he spent his days on the set filming, but he spent his nights out on the town. And then his days sleeping it off. He was young, and this town laid itself out for him. Clubs were packed to capacity on the nights he was in attendance, and the photographers were out in full force. After his accident, he didn’t drive himself much, now employing Bryan on a much more full-time basis. Which worked out well for him: he could party even harder. Paparazzi swarmed him when he arrived and when he left, and industrious amateur photographers inside the clubs with camera phones sold shots to magazines of him sitting in VIP section after VIP section. And always with Adam right next to him.

I had to give it to the guy, Adam was smart. After his star threatened to forever be tarnished by his past behavior, appearing with Jack so often around town had him back on the rise.

Late one night, I was awoken from a sound sleep by the sound of glass breaking and loud male laughter. Startled, I sat up straight, tingles all along the back of my neck as my hand groped for my phone, ready to call the police. But before I could even get there, the bedroom door swung open and there he was, my Brit. And he was . . . laughing?

“Grace, love, I’m so sorry. We broke your, oh man—” He doubled over with laughter.

“What the hell?” I asked, drawing the sheet closer around me as I blinked back sleep. Now that I was awake, my emotions changed to something closer to anger.

“Broke your buggery bowl. You know the one you keep our mail in? Adam tripped coming through the door and—Oh no, you’re mad!”

He laughed again, sputtering as he crossed to the bed and sat down heavily next to me. The stink of whiskey was all around, and I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.