Acting Brave (Fenbrook Academy #3) (36 page)

I couldn’t get away from the feeling that I wasn’t right for her. I remembered the guy Jasmine had meant to be acting with, when I’d stormed into her audition. Sure, he was a jerk, but he had money and he knew this whole world of
ad-libbing
and
method acting.
I was just a big, dumb cop. Police work was all I was really good at. And I’d even managed to mess that up and get my partner killed.

Thinking of Hux made my mouth go dry, so I sank another beer.

Chapter 42

Jasmine

I was happy. Flicker felt like home and having all my friends
and
Ryan there made it even better. Then a couple of people from my acting classes at Fenbrook showed up and we got to talking about the show. Ryan, though, seemed withdrawn, more focused on drinking than joining in with us. What was his problem?

To my relief, Karen drew him into her conversation about music. Good timing, because Natasha pulled me away from the table to talk in private.

“You okay?” she asked. “Clarissa and Karen said you’ve been acting...weird.”

I shook my head. “I’m fine. Just fine.” I glanced across at Darrell. “How’s stuff with you guys?”

Natasha sighed. “Good, I guess. I mean, it’s great, living in the mansion.”

I narrowed my eyes. “By
great,
do you kind of mean...
bad?”

“No! Of course not! We’ve got a hot tub, for God’s sake. And have you seen the kitchen? And we have parties all the time.”

They did, too. The sort of parties where waiters handed you flutes of champagne from silver trays. I’d been to several of them, now. “So…?”

She gave me a fake-looking grin. “Nothing! It’s all good.”

I knew there was something she wasn’t telling me. She looked sort of drawn and… Shit! Was it because I was lying to her? Had I distanced myself, with all my hiding, pushed myself further and further away, until none of them trusted me anymore? Was that why Karen seemed colder toward me?

I wanted to help her but I didn’t feel I could push...not while I was holding back so much myself. So instead, I found myself looking at Darrell. “You remember when you two started going out?” I asked. “When he didn’t know about...the cutting?”

Natasha had been self-harming, back when they’d met. Clarissa had apparently known because they lived together, but she’d kept it a secret from the rest of us. In a way, that made me feel better—I wasn’t the only one who’d kept things from my friends. But she’d at least told one person...and keeping a problem like self-harming secret isn’t on the same level as lying about who you really are.

Natasha nodded a little stiffly. “Sure.”

I chose my words carefully—I didn’t want to upset her. “He tried to find out, right? Before you told him? I mean, he kept asking questions and wanting to know?”

She nodded again. “Yeah. And I wouldn’t open up. It almost split us up. I walked out on him, in fact.”

“What made it okay?” I knew I was saying too much. Between Clarissa, Karen and now Nat, I was asking way too many suspicious questions. But I had to know.

She shook her head. “Nothing. It wasn’t okay.” She sighed. “Until...he found out everything. And then I found that he was having problems, too. And we sort of...shared. And he told me he loved me just as I was.” She blinked and I realized she was tearing up.

“Shit! Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

She shook her head again and blinked frantically. “No, it’s fine.” She took a deep breath and regained control. “Anyway, that was it. He kept asking and pushing and... I guess, in a way, I’m glad he did because it meant I had to let him in. If I hadn’t, I’d never have known he loved
me.
I’d have kept thinking he didn’t know the real me, inside. I don’t think we could have lasted long, that way.” She gave me a sad grin. “This is probably making no sense at all.”

But it was. It made all the sense in the world, except...Natasha had only had to reveal that she self-harmed and why she did it. Of course he’d still loved her, when he found out.

If Ryan found out what had happened to me, and what I’d done—and chosen not to do—it really would be over. And, from what Natasha was saying, keeping it all from him forever wasn’t an option, either.

I sighed and looked across at Ryan. He was working quickly through yet another beer. Oh, hell—was he getting drunk? He was talking to Clarissa and Darrell, now, but didn’t seem to be saying much.
What’s the problem? Are my friends not good enough for you?!
Did he think a bunch of actors and musicians and ballerinas were all too silly and flighty and not “real workers,” like cops?

I could feel myself getting angry and I knew, on some level, that it wasn’t really Ryan I was angry at. I was mad at myself for the way I was letting my friendships break apart...and for the fact that the same damn thing was going to happen between Ryan and me, if I couldn’t figure out a solution.

Ryan finished his beer. I sat down next to him. “Maybe you should switch to water,” I said lightly.

“I’m fine,” he told me. And I could hear the booze in his voice. Not quite a slur, but that determined, over-loud tone that I remembered from—

I squeezed my eyes shut. No. Ryan was nothing like that.

But now that I’d had the thought, I couldn’t shut it out. When I opened my eyes, Ryan was smiling at me—apologetically, because he must have realized he’d sounded snappy. But in my mind, the smile turned cruel. It wasn’t the booze I minded. I drank plenty myself, had been drunk plenty of times myself. It wasn’t even
him
being drunk, specifically, that I minded. It was being around a drunk man.

He’s nothing like that,
I told myself again.

But my brain locked onto the glazed look in his eyes. I was viewing him through the filter of my memories, now, and I was worried those eyes could narrow and turn mean.

My dad, breathing whiskey fumes on my face as he pounds my belly with his fists—

Drunken men in a group around me, moving me toward the back room—

I got up from the table.

“Are we leaving?” asked Ryan.

“No. I am.” I could feel my legs shaking.

“Jasmine?” Karen was looking at me, concerned.

“I’ll walk you home,” said Ryan, getting up.

“You’re drunk,” I snapped.

“No!” He considered. “Maybe. A bit. So what?”

I shook my head. I couldn’t explain. I ran for the door. I heard Ryan start after me but, when I looked back, Neil had grabbed his arm, shaking his head at him. A good thing, too, or we’d have had a full-on row in front of everyone.

I jumped into the first cab I saw, tears in my eyes.

***

By the time I arrived home, I was calmer. I just felt exhausted, as if every last emotional reserve was drained. I’d overreacted and I knew it—my old memories of Chicago had surfaced again to wreck everything.

I thought about calling Ryan to apologize. But it wasn’t entirely my fault. Why had he felt the need to get drunk in the first place? Why couldn’t he have just talked to my friends?

I was almost at my bedroom when Nick stumbled out of the bathroom. Normally, he wore a robe when he was on his way to and from the shower—in fact, he tended to steal
my
robe, which looked kind of ridiculous on him. But that evening, maybe because he thought he’d be alone, he’d just wrapped a towel around his waist. “Shit!” he said. “Sorry. You’re back early.”

I shook my head. “No biggie. I’ve seen your chest before.” Come to think of it, he looked
thin.
His clothes had been hiding it.

“Actually, I need to talk to you,” he said. “I read about something online, about redevelopment in Chicago. I think maybe I should—” He broke off as he saw me staring at his upper arms.

My stomach had dropped through the floor. Now I knew why he’d always worn a robe, before. I leaned back against the wall. “When did you start using again?” I asked, my voice shaking.

Chapter 43

Jasmine

I saw him open his mouth to deny it, but I grabbed his arm and twisted it. The track marks were vivid bruises against his pale skin. I locked eyes with him and he slumped, crestfallen.

I let his arm go and gave a long, loud yell of frustration. All of my anger at myself, at Ryan, at the whole situation, came bubbling out. I was
trying.
I was really
trying,
with the show and with Ryan and with my brother and everything. Couldn’t something just go right, for once?!

“I’m stupid,” I said out loud, shaking my head. “I’m so stupid. Of
course
you’re using again. Did you ever even stop?”

“Yes!” he said hotly. “For ages. Years. This is...recent.” He looked so ashamed that I actually softened for a second.

“Where do you get the money?” I asked. “Are you dealing?” My hands knitted in my hair, anger mingling with sick fear. “Oh, please God, don’t say you’ve got drugs in the apartment.
Please
don’t say you’ve been dealing from here!”

“No! I’m not dealing at all!”

“Then where’s the money coming from? The Fairy fucking Godmother?” I could hear my voice regaining its old Chicago edge. Slipping back into that world was as horribly familiar as sliding into a warm pool.

“I’ve been doing a few jobs for people. You know how it is.”

Yes. I did know exactly how it was. Just like back in Chicago: a favor here, a package delivered there. We’d both done jobs like that for our dad and, occasionally, for other people. A life of looking over your shoulder. There were brief, shining moments when you felt temporarily rich, but they lay like diamonds in tar, a thick black ooze of misery and fear, of lying sleepless in your bed at night wondering if the police would kick in the door. Exactly the life I’d run away from. And now it was back, staring me right in the face.

“I’ve just been doing it sometimes,” he said. “Just to unwind. Just a little bit.”

“It’s
heroin!”
I screamed. “There’s no such thing as
a little bit,
you fucking idiot!” I pushed him in the chest with both hands and he went staggering back into the bathroom. “Get your things and get out!”

He went quiet for a few seconds, letting me calm down, then said, “You won’t make rent if I do.”

He was right. I still hadn’t been paid by the TV show. If I kicked him out, I’d have to give him back most of the money he’d paid,—however angry I was, I wasn’t going to throw him out onto the street with no money for a place to stay. He was still my brother.

My eyes were on the floor but I could hear him walking very slowly toward me. I let him draw me into a loose hug, his head on my shoulder. “I’m getting myself straightened out,” he said quietly. “I promise. That’s why I wanted to move in with you. It’s a break from the past. Once I’ve got the money saved, I’m going to get clean.”

I knew I shouldn’t believe him...but I
wanted
to believe him. The alternative was that there really was no escape from our old life. If he couldn’t make it out, if he got dragged back down again, then there was no hope for me, either.

“I won’t be here forever, anyhow,” Nick said, almost whispering, now. He always was good at calming me down, after our father had left me in tears. “Just for a little while. Okay?”

I hated myself for being weak. But was I being weak by letting him stay, or would it be more cowardly to throw him out on the streets, just so that I wasn’t reminded of Chicago? I felt almost as if I was scared of getting infected, as if crime and violence was a virus and he could re-infect me after I’d been cured for so long.

But what sort of sister would I be if I threw him out, just to keep myself safe?

“Fine,” I whispered. “You can stay. But I don’t want to know about it. Keep it in your room.”

I felt him nod. “Thank you.”

And just like that, the past came a step closer.

***

The next day, we were back to filming. The sets were all finished now and we were making our way steadily through the script for the pilot. In the scenes we’d be filming that morning, Ryan’s character—Tony—would be showing my character—Isabel—how to interrogate a suspect. Except, when we were in the interrogation room together, it was
her
he was more interested in interrogating, with a view to getting her into bed. This was all leading up to the bedroom scene that would come near the end of the show—the one we’d already filmed. It was confusing, having to act as if we were still at the flirting stage when we’d already simulated sex, but that’s TV.

I showed up early, clutching an extra-hot, venti Americano in the hope it would see me through the morning. I hadn’t slept well. Whenever I managed to submerge myself in sleep, the Chicago nightmares would start. Ryan getting drunk and Nick’s drug use had brought them back in full Technicolor clarity. I could smell the cigarette smoke of that back room, feel the spilled beer sticky on the edge of the pool table. I’d woken up, run to the bathroom and dry-heaved into the toilet, my whole body shaking. And then, even though it was only 6am, I’d had a shower and gotten dressed because no way was I going back to sleep and risking seeing their faces again.