Love, Chloe - Alessandra Torre Page 0,35

could and he looked irritated. I guess he hated Fake Chloe as much as I hated Fake Joey. Ugh. Our names rhymed. How had I never noticed that before?

“I just want to talk. That’s it.”

I examined his face warily. The conversation was getting weirder by the minute. I glanced at my watch. “Chat now. I’ve got stuff to do.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Here?”

I bit back a sarcastic comment about him needing privacy and eyed the crowded path. I nodded to our left, cut between two trailers and walked to a quiet spot behind a rack of lights. “Better?” I asked, my voice quieter.

“Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly hesitant, then leaned closer in to me. “We need Nicole to cough up more cash.”

It was so unexpected I laughed. I’d heard that rumor since the day I walked on set, snide comments following Nicole wherever she went. The general consensus among the crew was that she’d bought her spot on the cast, a rumor I hadn’t debunked. It distracted them from the truth: that Paulo was more interested in what was between her legs than what was filling her pockets.

Joey glared. “I’m serious, Chloe. The film is way over budget. The studio is balking.”

“So? Don’t most movies go over budget?”

“Yeah, but the studio is already skittish, especially with Condom Barbie’s name attached. Paulo approached me about needing a cash infusion.”

That surprised me. I didn’t know crap about movies but it seemed odd to ask the star to fund it after filming had begun. “Is that normal? A director approaching you to help fund the film?”

“No. But Paulo and I are the ones who found this script and pitched it to the production company. I offered to step in with cash then but it wasn’t needed.”

“So put in the cash now.”

His eyes darkened. “I’m not paying for Nicole’s mistakes. The only reason we’re over budget is her. She’s taking three takes longer than anyone else, and has Paulo’s ear, requesting script changes every other day.”

Something was off. I watched his toe stub at the ground, saw the flex of his jaw as he looked to the side. I’d lay down odds that Joey couldn’t step up with the funding, and it had nothing to do with Nicole and everything to do with a lack of cash. Maybe he wasn’t as successful as he wanted everyone to believe. Or as responsible with his success.

I didn’t call him out. Instead, I asked how much was needed, flinching at the twenty million number he threw out. An amount he seemed intent on Nicole covering.

“Will she do it?”

I shrugged. “Why are you asking me? You see her nine hours a day, ask her.”

He reached out and grabbed my hand, a move right out of his Endearing Gestures Toolbox. “You know her. What’s their financial situation like? Is that kind of additional investment feasible?”

I studied him. Joey was actually worried, the tension in his grip indicating exactly how interested he was in my response. For all his bitching about Nicole tanking the film, he wanted to see it through. He wanted to see it funded. But not only that … he wanted to see it succeed. Maybe Big Bad Joey Plazen wasn’t the confident ass he portrayed. Maybe when cut, he bled insecurity just like the rest of us. He raised his eyebrows and stared at me, waiting.

“I don’t know,” I finally said, tugging my hand back. There’d been a few hints here and there that money wasn’t as free-flowing as it might have once been. Which wasn’t to say the Brantleys were downsizing anytime soon. But Nicole was yacht-shopping last week and Clarke shut down that idea down really quick. “I don’t think it’s a given. A possibility, maybe.” I glanced at my watch. “I have to go.”

He nodded and stepped back. “Thanks.”

“Sorry I couldn’t help out more.”

He flashed a smile, one almost convincing enough to look carefree. “No biggie. Someone will come forward, if she won’t.” He waved, turning away, and I watched him walk off, not buying his sudden ease.

Twenty million. I smiled, heading to Wardrobe, the sum unthinkable to a girl who had just stocked her fridge with stolen McDonald’s condiment packets.

33. Knock. Knock.

C9. I stared at the number, innocently set into the door, and chewed on my nail. Glanced at my watch, which hadn’t changed. Still fifteen minutes past midnight.

If only I hadn’t stopped by the bookstore and furiously scanned the tabloids…

If only I hadn’t swung by Benta’s,