Here Without You (Between the Lines #4) Paperback Page 5

  ‘Looks like I have a new goal: teach Dori to be impractical.’

  She shakes her head, bemused. ‘I don’t know, Reid – that sounds like an unattainable goal.’ The valet opens her door and she starts before taking another deep breath and accepting his hand. She’s a bundle of nerves. I doubt she’s going to relax all evening, and God knows I probably won’t be able to talk her into loosening up the Reid Alexander way – with a shot of something old and expensive.

  ‘Challenge accepted, Dorcas Cantrell,’ I murmur, jumping out of my side of the car and coming around to encircle her shoulders and lead her inside. Challenge accepted.

  I order the chilled crab and avocado for an appetizer, and a bottle of Torrontés. Dori asks for a glass of water. At my nod, the waiter fetches a trendy bottled water, decanting and pouring it into her glass while maintaining a perfectly blank expression. Dori arches a brow and mouths impractical at me with a smirk. I smirk back. She has no idea what impractical things I can come up with where she’s concerned.

  By the end of the meal, she’s more relaxed. Despite the crush of people, the lush vegetation and flickering candles render the patio cosy and intimate instead of congested. There’ve been no camera flashes, of course, and no one’s paid us any particular attention, other than the waiting staff – all of them serving us with the same pleasant but impassive expressions. It won’t be this way in other LA haunts. At some point soon, Dori will be fully initiated into the public scrutiny that comes with being or dating a celebrity. She had a minor taste of it last summer, after the patio incident – but that was nothing.

  Not that I’m telling her that.

  John’s high-rise apartment is bursting at the seams by the time we arrive, which wasn’t exactly what we agreed on when he begged me to let him host Dori’s coming-out party. (Another thing I’m not telling her – that John and I devised the party specifically to introduce her to our crowd in a less public venue.)

  ‘Wow,’ Dori murmurs, leaning close. ‘Your friend has lots of friends.’

  John doesn’t have friends as much as he has a network of useful acquaintances, and those acquaintances are all not-so-slyly eyeballing us the moment we hand our jackets to the girl at the door and begin to make our way through the crowd. I follow the sound of John’s laughter over the music, feeling Dori’s hand clamped to mine like our palms are permanently bonded.

  ‘Reid – hey, dude. Where’s –? Oh, there she is,’ he smiles, spotting her behind me. ‘Even smaller than I remembered.’

  Dori has only the vaguest of memories of John, since their only meeting occurred during the most inebriated night of her life – if not the only inebriated night of her life. She smiles back at him, but her grip on my hand doesn’t loosen. I bend that arm behind her back so I can pull her closer. She may be curvy and strong, but John’s right, she feels small tucked to my side.

  ‘Hey, John. Lots of people here,’ I say pointedly. We’d agreed on twenty or so, and there’s easily two or three times that many wandering around his place and spilling on to the balcony.

  He shrugs and grins. ‘What can I say? I’m a popular guy.’ Snatching two champagne flutes from the bar’s countertop, he hands them to us. ‘Welcome, Dori. I hear you’ve made an honest man of my bro, here.’

  I take one glass while Dori shakes her head infinitesimally. ‘Oh – I don’t –’

  Deftly separating her from me, John smiles and leans close, pressing the glass into her hand. ‘Just hold it. You can sip it. Or not.’ His hand at her lower back, he says over his shoulder, ‘I’ll return her in a bit, dude. Maybe.’ His brows waggle and I glare at him.

  ‘John …’ My voice has an edge, but he’s set on ignoring me, damn him.

  Stopping at the first huddle of people, he asks, ‘Claude and Nichole – have you met Reid’s girlfriend? This is Dori. LA native, Cal undergrad, way too smart for him. I’m just waiting for her to wise up so I can swoop in.’

  Eyebrows rise, eyes widen, and a couple of mouths fall open. I hear my name whispered, along with the repetition of the word girlfriend and speculations of Who is she? John is strategically blocking Dori’s view of a couple of girls whose eyes run over her, one whispering to the other, their joint scorn palpable. I’m pretty sure I’ve slept with at least one of them. Shit.

  The couple he addressed, though, smile and recover quickly. They’re both semi-working actors, each patiently awaiting a turn in the spotlight, and it’s standard John to keep his eye on up-and-comers like that. Just as he did with me.

  ‘Oh! Dori? So nice to meet you,’ Nichole says.

  ‘Thank you.’ Dori smiles, holding that glass of champagne like an ornamental shield. John’s still got her opposite arm tucked into the crook of his elbow.

  ‘I didn’t know Reid had a girlfriend,’ Claude says, addressing her with curiosity. ‘This is recent?’

  ‘Not only recent, but virtually unprecedented,’ John answers, proud to be the one to divulge this newsflash. As he escorts her to the next group, she throws an amused glance over her shoulder, and I’m convinced she can handle just about anything.

  6

  BROOKE

  Kathryn offered to drive in and pick me up, but the flight is due to land close to midnight, and I have a downtown appointment at 9:00 a.m. There’s no reason to trek out to the sticks just to turn around in a few hours and come right back, in rush-hour traffic, no less. I set up car service and a hotel with an open-ended checkout instead – something my agent or manager would normally do, but I’m not even telling either of them I’m leaving LA, let alone the reason why. They’d freak out and blow up my phone with all the reasons I shouldn’t go.

  What’s that thing they say about apologizing later instead of asking permission now? That could be the official Brooke Cameron motto.

  My favourite part of flying first class is that I’m first on and first off – which means little to no interaction with my fellow passengers. That’s a luxury I’m happy to pay for. Tonight, my rowmate is some musician’s kid. I vaguely recognize him, but can’t recall which legendary lead-man-whore fathered him. He ogles me with interest, but I’m not sure if he recognizes me. I check him out while he’s engrossed in an argument with the flight attendant over whether or not he can be served alcohol (‘But this is first class!’ he whines, as if she isn’t aware of that), and my short perusal leads to the conclusion that he can’t be a day over sixteen.

  I slip my earbuds in, stare out the window and ignore him. Soon he’s playing an all-boobs-and-blood video game on his laptop, confirming his probable age.

  By the time we land, all the airport shops are closed and the linked seating outside every gate is empty, the wide expanse of polished floor reflecting the methodical dots of yellow lighting in the main concourse. A large metal sign under a colourful collection of guitar art declares my hometown the ‘Music Capital of the World’. Pieces of this collection stand watch over empty baggage carousels, all but one of them motionless – probably my flight. I didn’t check a bag, so I don’t have to stop. I’m creeped out in such a huge, nearly unpopulated place, and my absurd imagination – courtesy two hours’ worth of gory video game imagery – suggests a zombie apocalypse.

  I hightail it through the nearly deserted airport to the appointed exit, where a car waits at the kerb to transport me into the city I used to know so well. I’ve only been back three times in the past six years – the first to give birth to River, the second to film School Pride and the third to do a photo shoot promoting the film. Austin and I have grown and changed since I lived here, whether we welcomed those transformations or not.

  I might be able to retrace my steps, but I can’t go back and choose an alternate path. Far too late for that.

  I was fifteen when I went on location without parental supervision for the first time. Reid, a year younger, was the only cast member near my age. As minor characters, we had few scenes and were too often left to our own devices. We quickly formed an alliance against being bored out of our
minds.

  One afternoon during the first week, I sat on my trailer steps and watched as he attempted to perform a routine trick on the longboard he’d brought along. Over and over, he glided across the concrete, hooking the edge of the board and jumping simultaneously, but never quite landing it. He was so pretty. So cocky. So determined. So doing it wrong.

  The fifth time he screwed up, he fell on his ass and I chuckled. Scowling, he swiped blood from his elbow and dared, ‘Why don’t you try it, if you think it looks so easy?’

  I didn’t tell him that my stepsister Kylie was a skilled skateboarder, and I’d known how to pop-shove it like a pro since I was ten. Pretending ignorance, I listened as he explained the how-to. When I got a running start before jumping on to the board and pumping it even faster, he looked startled. With a practised flick of my foot, I flipped the board, landed it smoothly and glided by him wearing a cocky grin of my own.

  As he walked up, I stepped off the board and popped it up and into my hand to give it back. Placing his hand atop mine instead of taking the board, he pushed right into my personal space, eyes bright. ‘That was awesome,’ he said. ‘And so freakin’ hot. It makes me want to, like, kiss you or something.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said, heart pounding from the physical exertion, the anticipation of my first kiss, or both. If he was surprised by my instant acquiescence, he didn’t show it. Instead, he stepped closer, bracketed my waist with his hands and leaned to give me a kiss that was more like several small kisses in a row, each one better than the last.

  I didn’t know then that he was experiencing his first kiss too. And his second. And his third.

  DORI

  The further I get from Reid, the more anxious I am. I don’t know any of these people, and I don’t know this roguish boy guiding me through the crowd with his hand at my lower back, either. I know he’s Reid’s best friend, but any time Reid tries to describe their relationship, he ends up shaking his head and shrugging. ‘You’ll see when you meet him. He’s just … John.’

  So far, I’ve concluded that John is a habitual flirt and a shameless celebrity suck-up, and his language is as atrocious as Reid’s was (or more likely as atrocious as Reid’s is – I have no delusions that I’ve changed him, only that he attempts to abide by my limits when he’s around me). Judging by tonight’s spate of accolades concerning my education and social service record, John is also determined to get on my good side. Or elevate me to sainthood by the end of the night.

  I clear my throat to correct the erroneous statement he’s just made to a couple of girls lounging on his sofa – girls who are now appraising me curiously, as if I have extra limbs or a blue skin tone.

  ‘I’m not actually a missionary.’

  He frowns. ‘But Reid said you went to Puerto Rico or Brazil to hand out shoes or bibles or something.’

  ‘Uh … I went to Ecuador to work as a volunteer music teacher at a mission school –’

  ‘Mission school. Right. So you’re like, a missionary.’

  Oh my word. I take a breath. ‘Well, no – missionaries usually accept long term or even lifelong assignments; they’re dedicated to doing evangelical work as well as practical objectives like establishing schools or hospitals –’

  ‘But you just said you were helping run a school in Panama.’

  I sigh, recalling Ana Diaz, my programme director in Quito who fights a daily, year-round battle against poverty, crime and uneducated parents who can’t imagine anything better for their children – who send them out to shine shoes or pickpocket or anything that might put food on the family’s table that night.

  ‘She said Ecuador,’ one of the girls says, scrutinizing my face. Like all the other girls here, she’s dressed casually, but something about the way the fabrics drape over her says money. Her eyes are dark and alert. I’m certain she can tell that I’m completely out of my element.

  John shrugs. ‘Po-tae-to, po-tah-to.’

  She rolls her eyes and mutters, ‘Idiot.’ John feigns an insulted gasp, voicing his unconcern over her opinion wordlessly. Ignoring him, she asks, ‘So, you’re Reid’s girlfriend?’

  My heart flips over at the word and I nod, absorbing the disbelief in her crooked brow and swiftly repeated head-to-toe inspection.

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s just – you seem really … not his type.’

  I flush and John turns me, saying, ‘No need to be a bitch, Jo –’

  ‘No.’ She leans forward. ‘I mean, she’s totally unlike his last girlfriend.’

  John stops, turning back to her. ‘I know you don’t know Emma Pierce.’

  ‘Not her. The first one.’ Her lip angles in a sneer of disgust. ‘Brooke Cameron.’

  My mouth falls open. Brooke Cameron – the beautiful star of Life’s a Beach with whom Kayla and Aimee have a love-and-hate-from-afar relationship. The girl who played Caroline in Reid’s last movie. She was once his girlfriend?

  ‘Jesus, that flaming disaster was like a hundred years ago. And you remember it?’ John laughs. ‘Obsessed much?’

  ‘Fuck you, John,’ Jo says, surging up, eyes flashing, drink sloshing on to her hand. ‘I’m not the one content to be his man-whore sidekick. No offence,’ she tosses at me.

  ‘Uh …’ I glance over my shoulder, looking for Reid and fighting claustrophobia.

  ‘God, okay you two – that’s enough.’ The other girl pipes up, her voice as tiny as she is. She stands, hands on hips, glowering up at John. ‘I thought you were going to be nice.’

  He pulls her in close with his opposite arm. ‘Maybe you should keep your roommate on a leash, Bianca. Or muzzled.’

  ‘John!’ She shoves him in the chest half-heartedly, the attraction between them obvious.

  ‘C’mon, Bianca.’ Jo stomps towards the bar setup in the corner.

  Bianca heaves a groan, shakes her head and follows her friend.

  Watching them go, lips flattened, John mumbles, ‘Well, that was nasty.’

  ‘Is Bianca your –?’ I stop, unsure how to classify her.

  He takes the fluted glass from my hand, quaffs half the bubbly contents – champagne, I assume – and hands it back. ‘We’re on-again, off-again. Can’t stand her charming roommate, though, in case you didn’t catch that.’

  ‘Hmm. I hadn’t noticed.’

  He smiles wolfishly at my sarcastic tone, and I begin to see the place where he and Reid connect. ‘I like you, Dori.’

  ‘Hey.’ Reid’s eyes are dark, one brow quirked as he draws me from John’s side. ‘Hands off, man. I don’t want to maim you at your own party.’ His threat is all for show, as is John’s theatrical palms-up. Reid’s voice goes softer and he angles his head in the direction taken by the girls. ‘And, uh, what was that about? Why is Jo even here?’

  ‘Bro, seriously – be realistic,’ John scoffs. ‘I can’t just invite a bunch of guys.’

  The implication is unmistakable: there’s no avoiding some things, like the ghosts of Reid’s sexual past. There are too many girls in his social circle, in this city, in this country, for us to avoid them all. His Hollywood Lothario reputation precedes him. My friends and even my parents are all too familiar with it. I’ve made it clear that I don’t want or need to hear the grisly details, and I think he was grateful he didn’t have to confess them.

  I expect the general public to wonder what in the world he’s doing with me – I got a taste of that when I tripped and fell on top of him at the Habitat project last summer, sending the tabloids into merciless speculation. I expect to run into starlets and fans who want him, who’ve been with him, even, who might hate me on sight.

  Pretty sure Jo is one of those.

  But finding out that he was involved with Brooke Cameron for long enough that it was a known relationship? He may have loved her. That unforeseen possibility wells up, a reflux of the only fear I’ve refused to face. Despite the rumours that he’s bedded half of young Hollywood – and the fact that he’s never refuted those allegations, I hoped his heart was mine alone. />
  I want to reject the jealousy and insecurity that begin to boil in the pit of my stomach. I need the truth, whatever it is, but I can’t ask him. Because deep inside, I don’t want to know.

  7

  BROOKE

  Norman Rogers, Kathryn’s attorney – more of a family friend at this point since he’s been her attorney since her divorce from my dad – sputters, incredulous, when I tell him I want River.

  ‘But. Are you sure?’ he asks, as if I would set up this appointment and travel from Los Angeles to Texas on a whim.

  I grind my teeth. I survived the shocked reactions of Reid, my private investigator and my stepmother. What’s one more? ‘Yes. I want my son back.’ On second thoughts, I should probably get used to this response. Maybe I should call Angelina and ask her how she fielded these sorts of sceptical reactions.

  Eyeing me over his glasses, Norman says, ‘All righty, then.’ Tapping his gold-plated pen on the pad, he gets down to business. ‘The first thing we need to do is get in front of a judge and get a home study ordered. I assume you plan to move him to California? If so, we’ll need to get an ICPC to coordinate the case between Los Angeles County and the State of Texas.’ He scrawls his lawyer chicken-scratch across a legal pad, plotting our plan of attack, I assume. ‘It’ll be up to the judge whether the adoption takes place here in Texas or is transferred to a California court …’

  ‘Adoption?’ I throw some incredulity of my own at him. ‘But I’m his mother. Can’t I just … have him back?’

  Norman stares down at the pad and underlines a couple of things, rubbing one thick finger back and forth on his forehead as if he’s trying to buff away the premature creases this conversation will leave there. The silence stretches until, at last, he clears his throat. ‘Brooke, River is in foster care. The State of Texas holds guardianship over him. There are specific procedures in place to make sure what’s done now is in the best interest of the child.’