suddenly. When I open my eyes she’s pacing up and down the hotel suite, furiously rubbing her brow.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“We shouldn’t be doing things like this, Dylan. I’m struggling to keep my job as it is.” She checks her watch and slumps her shoulders in defeat. “It’s nearly three am. We have seven hours to get back on set.”
She looks at me in a panic, the unspoken plea for me to go along with her written all over her face. I stand up and grab my coat from the back of the chair.
“Plenty of time. We can sleep on the jet.”
It takes us about half an hour to make it to the airstrip, and as soon as we’re up in the air Gemma is out like a light, not even enough energy left in her to take a shower. I watch her fall asleep, her expression peaceful and demure. I whisper to Rachel for a blanket, and when she brings it, I cover Gemma carefully, so as not to wake her up. She turns slightly and settles.
I’m pretty tired myself, but for some reason I don’t want to close my eyes, not when she so calm, the delicate lines of her face elegant in repose. Something about her has its teeth in me, and won’t let go, pulling on a part of me that I don’t want to admit exists.
I barely know her, but I still see so much when I look at her. A way out. A different life. Something pure and clean. Something strong and inviting.
The question is: What does she see when she looks at me?
Chapter 2
Gemma
My nerves are jangling like guitar chords when I arrive on the set early. It’s the first day of shooting, and when I get called in for a meeting with my boss and the producers, that’s exactly what I expect them to do to me. Dylan and I both arrived on set a few minutes ago, barely on time and still exhausted. But even though we made it, something tells me we’re not in the clear yet.
I make my way over to the studio office building and knock on Miss Wiseman’s door.
“Come in!”
I step inside and find myself faced by two of Hollywood’s most respected (and feared) producers, both wearing expensive suits and worried expressions. Miss Wiseman is joined by Michael Colback, who has been checking in with me non-stop about Dylan since we started the project. Do they know about Vegas? I breathe deeply and take the seat that’s been prepared for me like an electric chair.
“How are you, Gemma?”
“I’m well, Miss Wiseman,” I reply, which will probably be the biggest lie I tell all month.
“Good,” she says, though her eyes are tense.
“We need to speak with you about Dylan,” Michael says, leaning forward so I can experience the full force of his over-elaborate hand gestures. “It seems like he’s been getting a little wild, from the reports we’re hearing.”
“Um…” I say, stalling.
“We know that he made an impromptu trip to Las Vegas last night – with you in tow.”
There’s no use trying to cover, and I feel my shoulders slump. “Yes. He did.”
Michael clears his throat and adjusts his tie, obviously uncomfortable. “It sounds like he’s already…how should I say it…‘pulling the leash,’ as it were. This is not good.”
“What happened in Vegas?” Miss Wiseman interjects.
“Stays in Vegas!” I laugh, as I see my joke roll off their stony faces like a rotten egg. “Sorry, bad joke. Uh…”
This is it. This is the moment of truth.
All morning I’ve been considering what to do, what to say. There isn’t a doubt in my mind that the ‘right thing’ would be to throw Dylan under the bus, then tell the bus driver to reverse over him a few times. I should detail every aspect of Dylan’s misdemeanors with all the honest directness of a pissed-off judge. It might make me seem incompetent, but it might also mean I get to keep my job. Plus, who could really blame me for not being able to keep him in check? The people in front of me know more than anybody about how much of a handful the Irish actor is. Why should I cover his ass when he’s been lighting a fire under mine?
That’s what I’m thinking, anyway, but the words that spill out of my mouth come from a place inside of me that is in no way controlled by my brain.
“Nothing happened.”
I will blame this on the fact that I