, and there’s a stiffness about him that says he’s trying too hard to live up to an image of who he thinks he should be. As usual, he wears a designer shirt in a muted green and the matching cargo shorts. His thick wrist sports an Omega watch, which he received as a gift when he got himself injured on a set doing a stunt once.
I jerk my arm away, and he takes in a couple of deep breaths—his attempt at calming down. A dark flush marks his cheeks.
“I called and texted. Why didn’t you answer?” His tone is more modulated now, though he can’t hide the resentment and anger simmering underneath.
“I’ve been busy. And I thought we weren’t going to talk to each other after that scene. You made it very clear I was beneath you because I’m ‘too fucking fat to fuck.’ Your words, not mine.” I smile thinly.
“Because you made me angry. You said some stuff about me too.”
“Only after you got nasty with me.” I couldn’t resist a dig at the size of his equipment and how poorly he uses it after he attacked me like that.
He waves it away. “That’s not important. What’s important is I had no choice but to put things in perspective for you.”
I cross my arms. Such bullshit. “If you want to talk to me, go through Ryder’s publicist. I’m not talking to you anymore.”
“Don’t be like that. You owe me one.”
I raise my eyebrows. I owe him one?
“I told you I needed to talk to Ryder about my script. You kept saying no, but now that you’re his fiancée, it doesn’t matter, right? It’s not like you’re gonna get fired.”
My skull seems to shrink around my brain, creating a painful pressure. I thought Shaun had given up when I turned him down. The movie script he showed me was awful, even though I couldn’t bring myself to tell him so. But he’s convinced that it’s the Great American Movie that can make all previous blockbusters look like phony bullshit. And all he needs to do is convince Ryder to make it with him. Of course since Ryder’s the bigger star, Shaun will “settle” for the part of kickass best friend of the hero, but the movie is supposed to make both of them superstars.
Apparently, Shaun hadn’t gotten the memo that Ryder’s already a superstar.
“Shaun, I told you to talk to his team, not me,” I say.
“You will do this. Show it to Ryder himself, or I’m going to make you sorry. I have stuff on you that can make you look bad. It’s my destiny to become a star, and I don’t care how it happens. Doing it with your help is the easy way. And believe me, both of us would rather that I not have to do it the hard way. Because if I do, it’s going to hurt you more than it hurts me.”
“I’m not making you do anything. I don’t have a gun to your head, do I?” I need to get out of here. Life’s too short to waste on someone like him. Besides, he has nothing on me. I’m not one of those women who send their boyfriends nude selfies. My worst flaw might be that I can be a slob and I eat too much ice cream when I’m upset. I might possibly snore too. “I have to go.”
“No, you don’t!” He grabs me again.
A tingle of fear shivers through me. It’s broad daylight, we’re on a sidewalk, and it’s unlikely that Shaun’s going to do anything serious. At the same time, he’s never grabbed me like this in public, and there’s a new hint of anger and manic zeal in his gaze. Then there’s the paparazzi. I don’t want them taking photos of us and concocting some bullshit story.
“Let me go, or I’m calling the cops.” I keep my voice firm and strong. I’d prefer not to, but I will if I have to.
“Is this man bothering you, miss?” comes a soft voice that reminds me of a starless night.
“Fuck off. It’s none of your business,” Shaun says at the same time I say, “Yes.”
“You heard the lady. Why don’t you fuck off instead? Unless you’d like your legs broken.”
Shaun finally glances at the man, and they have one of those testosterone stare-downs. Whatever Shaun sees in the other man’s gaze makes him snarl a cuss word and stomp away.
I let out a breath. “Thank you.”
My savior is tall, with neatly trimmed dark hair. He’s young, probably no more than thirty, and his cool green eyes assess me. He’s in an impeccable pale blue dress shirt and black slacks, with shoes that gleam in the LA sunshine.
“You’re welcome.” His expression warms, and he looks around. “Things sure change a lot when you’re not in town.”
“I guess so,” I answer vaguely, not sure what he’s talking about. Then I notice another man behind him. It’s TJ, the bouncer from Z. I almost didn’t recognize him. Unlike at the popular club, he’s in a dark suit and wrap-around shades cover his face, but nothing can hide the thick lines of muscle. I’m quite certain he is carrying as well, even though his jacket is too well tailored to show it. What’s he doing, standing like an oak by my savior?
“You’re the infamous Paige Johnson,” the man says. “Ryder’s bride, right?”
I flush. “I see you’ve read the papers.”
“I try to keep up. He’s a good friend of mine.”