Ride Rough - Tessa Layne Page 0,3

You had to know this was all going to catch up to you, didn't you?"

Well... not really. Who was he if he wasn't Trace McBride, life of the party, on and off the set?

"Didn't you? Trace?" A note of worry entered Portia's voice.

"I was just taking advantage of the opportunity in front of me," he defended.

"WHO HAPPENED TO BE YOUR PRODUCER'S WIFE," she shouted. "Look, I don't care if she came onto you, or that the Whelans are swingers, or whatever bullshit line was used. It's time for you to grow the fuck up and start thinking about your future, Trace."

"I HAVE NO FUTURE," he shouted back, then yanked the car to the side of the road, slamming on the brakes. He let out a rough exhale, heart pounding. Jeezus, his hands were shaking. What in the hell had he just admitted? In an instant, his future spun out before him, empty. What did he have to look forward to? A decade more of action movies? If he was lucky? More parties? Did he really want to turn into that guy, the one who thought he was the life of the party, when in reality, he was the laughingstock? He'd been to those kinds of parties when he was younger... it wasn't pretty. It was pathetic, watching some has-been with thinning hair reliving the glory days and behaving like he still had it. Whatever it was. With the exception of Portia, he'd never bothered to make friends with his colleagues, or even his girlfriends. Instead, he'd surrounded himself with ego-fluffers. People who didn't pry into his personal life or demand anything except his wallet. Was that his future? His stomach lurched. What in the hell had he done with his life?

"Oh, hon," Portia said softly.

"Don't," Trace said even softer, throat prickling. He didn't want her pity. He could take anything but that. He ran a hand over his head, fingers stopping at the rubber band that held his bleach blond locks in check. "Look, I'll figure something out. I just need a few days."

"Uh-huh," she hummed. "We both know you never do well between projects. If you go to crazy town now, you'll end up in jail. Or worse," she cautioned.

"Let me guess," he went for full-on sarcasm. "This crazy-assed idea you're convinced is brilliant is going to save me?"

"As a matter of fact," she shot back tightly. "It is brilliant. But it's up to you whether or not you want to listen. And as for saving you," she added darkly. "This time, Trace, you're going to have to save yourself."

Chapter Three

The alarm beeping from the corner of the room sounded like an Amber alert. Trace tossed back the covers with a groan. He ached. Everywhere. Every bone, every sinew in his body felt like lead. Every muscle yelled at him in protest as he dropped his feet over the side of the bed and rolled to sit. "Shut up," he snapped at the alarm still blaring its punishing beeps. With a clench of his jaw, he squeezed the muscles in his legs, forcing them to submit to his will, and rose, lurching across the floor to slam his hand against the button and silence the obnoxious noise. Trace exhaled a sigh of relief as silence blessedly stole through the cabin.

What in the hell was he doing? It was only day four. He'd only been working at Resolution Ranch for four days. How in the hell was he going to manage a month? Let alone six? Let alone a year? What god did he need to start praying to, to end the agony ripping through his body? Trace blew out a rough breath and rolled his shoulders. Coffee. Coffee would help. And this morning, by god, he was determined to be ready before Sterling pounded on the door. He swore the foreman was fucking with him. The first morning, Sterling had banged on the door at five a.m., yanking Trace out of a dream he was fairly certain involved G-strings and tanning oil. Not wanting to come off as a slacker, he'd set his alarm for ten minutes earlier the next morning. Sterling still jarred him out of bed. The same thing happened again the third morning, though Trace had set his alarm even earlier. They were clearly hazing him, but no way would he let them think for one second that he expected deferential treatment. They'd made it clear when he arrived they expected him to pull his weight.