All-American Princess - Maggie Dallen Page 0,27

widened. “What did you say?”

“Uh…”

“What do you know about our money problems?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly. “I mean, not much.”

He muttered something about me and my father under his breath, but I couldn’t quite catch it. Probably for the best. By the way he was glaring, neither my father nor I was in his good graces at the moment.

But I noticed that he hadn’t tried to deny their financial issues.

Interesting.

I made a mental note to thank Tess for that little tidbit… or at least have her thank her sources. While I applauded the mysterious nature of the term “sources,” I had a hunch her deep throat was one of my father’s interns toiling away for minimum wage somewhere.

Still... Good find, deep throat, wherever you are.

“Come back with me,” I said. Even I could hear that I was begging. Was I pathetic? Yes. But at this point, my pride was nothing compared to the fear of facing my father as a failure. “You don’t have to commit to anything. Just come back and let us convince you that following in your father’s footsteps might not be so bad.”

I realized my mistake the moment the words came out. The moment his eyes flashed with pain.

“You want me to follow in my father’s footsteps,” he repeated. He gave another short humorless laugh. “You know where those footsteps led, don’t you? Right to the grave.”

I swallowed. Way to go, Lila. Remind him exactly why he hates Hollywood in the first place. Great work. “Brandon, if you—”

“Just go,” he said.

“But—”

“Go!”

I blinked and took two steps back at the shocking sound of Brandon’s anger. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. And then he was walking away, his back to me as he stormed off toward the house, his horse following behind him.

I watched him walk away, along with my hopes and dreams for the future. There went my chances of having the kind of fame and success I’d always dreamt of. There went any hope that my father might actually treat me like I had some use in the world.

There went any hope of being free.

Nine

Brandon

I should have waited longer to confront my mother. I’d gone inside and tried to calm down. When that didn’t work, I went for a long walk, and then I went to the barn to do some chores. When I came back to the house, I found that Jack’s truck was gone and I was out of excuses to avoid facing my mother.

In hindsight, though, I wished I’d given it more time.

I found her in the kitchen, and she glanced up with a smile as she stirred some vegetable in a skillet. “There you are,” she said. “Jack told me you’d had a visitor, and then we lost all track of you.”

I forced a smile to match hers, but it felt brittle. My mother was a beautiful woman. She always had been, but her beauty had taken on a fragile quality ever since my father died. There was something about her that seemed to scream breakable. At some point over the years, it had become second nature to treat her with kid gloves, like she was a skittish pony who might get spooked if I raised my voice or showed any signs of irritation.

I shoved my hands into my pockets and forced my anger deep down inside. “Why didn’t you tell me that Devereaux had been reaching out with a job offer?”

She stilled, and despite my best efforts to keep my voice cool and my demeanor calm, her eyes were wide with fear. “Devereaux never reached out.”

She was lying. I knew her tells well.

Everyone did; that’s why she was such a terrible gambler.

“Mom,” I said, arching one brow in a look that probably would have seemed patronizing if I hadn’t been taking care of her like she was the child these past eight years.

She looked down at the floor and fidgeted with her apron. “Devereaux never personally called,” she clarified.

I waited her out.

She glanced up with a sheepish look. “Maybe some of his men had been calling.”

I stifled a sigh. I was not in the mood to have to tease this out of her. “What did they want, Mom?”

A flicker of terror flashed across her features, and she was lost. Gone. For one horrifying moment, it was like those worst days of my childhood all over again—when my dad was dead, and my mother might as well have been.

I’d lost both my parents the day my father overdosed, and I