Bounce (10 page)

I've tried to imagine myself in these words a few times before, but it never sounds right. When I sing it my way, love isn't some cloud you float around in. It's not pretty and safe and neat. When I sing it love sounds flawed and dangerous, but what else would it sound like from me?

My own mother walked away from me when I was five. She left me with my dad and stepmom and never looked back. If your own mother doesn't stick around, what girl ever will?

Enough, Grey. Shit.

I cut the engine, but the song keeps playing. The spare guitar intro ends, and it's me. I come in, and I realize right away, on the first lyric, that Rez put the Grey-version on this playlist. Not the prettified version I pilfered from Shane and Adam's experiences. And I don't want to know what Skyler thinks. Not of my voice, or how I'm making a mockery of a love song. How I sound like love is fucking painful, raw and dark and awful, because, really, that was
my
first. It was
my
first taste of love.

I jump out of the car. “Be right back,” I say casually like my heart isn't bleeding through the speakers in the background.

Skyler doesn't even look up.

  
Chapter 12
  

Skyler

G
rey didn't have to tell me it's his voice coming through the speakers; I'd know it anywhere. It's got this wicked, velvety rasp that just grabs you—more so in song, even, than in conversation. When Grey speaks, it's a glancing thing, the dip of a word or two into this gravelly lower register. In song it's . . . ​it's everything. It's him.

I try to home in on the lyrics, but I'm too swept away by the tone, which is pro-level good and filled with depth. So full of wounds and wisdom, which seriously steals my breath and makes me reconsider my impression of him as just a kid, albeit one who looks delicious and flirts like a pro.

I wonder what caused those wounds.

Under all the brittle brightness and swagger, who
is
he? What haunts him to make him sing like this?

After a while, I realize I've listened to a few songs, which makes me check my watch, which makes me realize we're due at Adam's in twenty minutes, which causes adrenaline to spike through me so hard it feels like my hair's going to lift off at the scalp.

It occurs to me to go check on Grey, which also means meeting my potential costar, something that sends another surge of panic through me. But what the hell, it has to be done, and I'll feel worse if I walk in late for everything.

Coaching myself to breathe, I get out of the car and head over to the front door of a bougainvillea-draped bungalow. I climb the stairs up to a small porch, feeling like an intruder.

Just as I'm about to touch the doorbell, a voice from nowhere calls, “Come on in!” and I jump like a cat, almost tumbling down the steps.

I look around and see a tiny camera mounted under the eaves, a speaker beneath.

Opening the door, I squeeze into a space that smells like fresh paint. Tarps cover the polished wood floors and drape over mysterious lumps that I take to be furniture.

“Don't mind the mess,” says a man, coming into the room. “I just moved in and am on a mission to
obliterate
every trace of harvest gold and navy shag carpet that once defiled this gorgeous space.” He shudders. “Thank God I'm a master at spotting potential, or I'd have run screaming from this place the minute my Realtor brought me here.”

“Hi, I'm Skyler Canby,” I tell him, wondering if he'll spot my potential or want to run screaming.

“I know. I saw your screen test.
So
good.” He drifts closer to take my hand. “Though you're much more adorable in person.”

But, really,
he's
adorable. Blue, blue eyes. Like
blue
to the nth degree. Wavy black hair. Gorgeous skin. Startlingly good looking, even by LA standards. With an elegant posture that makes me feel like I'm looking at a reincarnation of Oscar Wilde.

He gives my hand a squeeze. “Garrett Allen.”

“You're beautiful,” I blurt.

Oh, God, take me now.

He laughs, and it's a big head-back, white-toothed laugh. The next thing I know he's got me wrapped up in a big hug. “That is the sweetest thing I've heard all day.”

Grey comes into the room, loaded down with cloth grocery bags stuffed full of food and a sleek black leather backpack slung over one shoulder.

“Is this everything?” It's clear from the look on his face that he doesn't know what hit him, but he sure doesn't appreciate whatever it was.

“Oh, yes, thanks.” Garrett claps his hands together, giving Grey an appreciative once-over. “I'm such a diva about food, it's just easier to bring my own.” He peeks through the contents of the bag, trots off for a second, and returns with a small container with some kind of jellied purplish thing inside. “Pickled plums,” he tells me. “Believe it or not, they help with my asthma.”

“Really?”

He nods. “I know the natural cure for
everything
.” Circling behind Grey, he unzips and checks the contents of the backpack, zips it back up, and gives Grey a pat on the back. “I can't believe how lucky I am. A lovely potential leading lady
and
a strapping young personal assistant. Adam Blackwood knows how to treat the talent, that's for sure.”

Grey's eyes widen. “A what now?”

“Personal assistant, silly,” Garrett says, grabbing Grey by the shoulders and giving him a little shake. “As in one who assists my person.”

Grey steps away from him, his expression clouding. “Um. No. Sorry. I think I'm just here to cart you over to my hou—I mean, to drive you over to Adam's place. That's all. I'm sure they'll find you a different assistant.”

“Nonsense,” Garrett says. “I want you.”

“Why don't we move this discussion to the car?” I say, as politely as possible. I don't want Grey to upset Garrett. I
need
him in a good mood.

Everything feels in suspended animation. I'll get to stay in LA, or I'll have to go home. I'll get to rescue Christina from the pawnshop, or she'll end up in someone else's hands. So much rides on these next moments.

I must be registering my panic because Grey says, “Yeah, let's go.” He tries to offer Garrett a smile, and it's impressive how utterly fake it looks. “We all set here?”

“Of course. Just let me get my wasabi peas.”

“Tell me where they are,” Grey says, and shoots a look my way. “Why don't you show Garrett to the car? I'll be right out.”

“Well, they're out on the patio, I think,” Garrett says. “I was marking up the script and got peckish. So, I think they're there. Or maybe on the desk in my office. Or—”

“I'll find them,” Grey says. He reaches around us, dwarfing Garrett and me, and pushes the door open. Then he not so gently shoves Garrett outside. “Go.”

Garrett smiles back at Grey, adoringly. “See? He's
perfect
assistant material. Sometimes, I really just need to be manhandled. That was Avery's problem. He couldn't say no, and I just ran all over him.”

“Avery?”

“The last one. Not a disciplined bone in his body.” He gives me a wink and a sly smile. “Though we
did
have our moments, believe me.”

“I believe you,” I tell him. I suspect it's impossible to be around Garrett without having moments. “Let's go.”

I don't know what laws of physics Grey breaks, but we manage to get from Brentwood to Malibu in twenty-five minutes. It's possible there's a wormhole involved.

He thrusts the car into the driveway, coming a breath away from tapping the back bumper of Mia's Prius.

Next thing I know, we're a flurry of arms, legs, and gourmet food items, borne along in a wake of Grey's impatience. He hurries us through the front door, calling out a hello and impatiently snagging everything away from us.

“I'll be right in,” he says. “Let me put this stuff in the dining room where Adam's got the food.”

He directs us down a long hall, past a ridiculously huge and high-end kitchen, into a vast living space. A triple set of glass doors anchors one side of the room, with tall windows on each side and a black expanse of the Pacific beyond. One of the doors is marked by a taped “X,” a couple of large-framed paintings stand propped against the wall, and it looks like a couple of pieces of furniture are missing from the room, based on the square impressions etching the thick-piled cream carpet. Maybe Adam's redecorating?

“Hello, hello,” Garrett says, and everyone rises to greet us.

“You made it,” Brooks says. He comes over to shake Garrett's hand and then bends down to give me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. His scent is nice—like fresh laundry and the sweet tang of a stream.

“Totally my fault,” Garrett says, and casts a brilliant smile around the room. “I'm such a pain in the ass, I made poor Grey schlep a week's worth of groceries over here. My apologies.”

“We do have food coming,” Adam says, rising. “Enough for an army.”

“Or just Grey, if he's hungry,” Brooks says.

I laugh but feel unaccountably protective of Grey at the same time.

Then everyone crowds around us, and we do the whole hugging and cheek-kissing thing. Mia stuffs her giant head of hair in my face and gives me a world-class squeeze, but Beth's hug is fleeting, a little chilled, and my body starts up with the adrenaline again.

I want this. But do I want to take it from her?

“You look gorgeous,” I say. She's in a simple gold A-line sheath that shows off her mile-long legs. Her hair's natural and curly, pulled back loosely to accentuate her sharp cheekbones, almond eyes, and insane eyelashes. I can't imagine a camera that wouldn't love to frame her in its lens.

“Thanks,” she says, and I can tell she's feeling it. As she should. She's a goddess.

“Jesus, Adam,” Grey says, coming into the room. “Are you expecting a hundred more people? There's a ton of food in there.”

Adam grins. “That's Alison's doing. She likes to make sure everyone's fed.”

“The whole block will be fed.”

“This house
is
the whole block,” Mia says, and it's true. It's big enough to fit, easily, four or five of our apartments inside.

We head into the dining room, where linens cover a couple of folding tables loaded end-to-end with food, including the contents of Garrett's grocery bags and backpack. I smile when I see that Grey's made a point of propping up the bag of wasabi peas between a plate mounded with short ribs and a deep platter of truly tasty looking tomato risotto.

Brooks hands me a plate and smiles at me. “Better eat up. We'll be working you hard tonight.”

I laugh. “Oh, really?”

“Really. You up to the challenge?”

Not at all. Maybe?

“Of course,” I say.

“Liking that attitude, Sky,” he says and gives me a wink.

I smile, but I'm distracted by the fact that he used my nickname. How strange it felt but endearing, too. There's something about him that's a little dazzling. It's like he pulses with confidence and this kind of worldliness, like he's walked the earth for eons, even though he can't be more than a year or two older than me. I know I can learn so much from him. And he'll be easy to look at while I'm learning.

I look up to see Beth watching me and feel a flush of guilt, like I'm doing something wrong just talking to Brooks. Does she think I'm flirting?
Was
I flirting?

Grey piles food on his plate and just keeps on piling.

“Hungry?” I ask.

He grins and slides a head-sized piece of lasagna onto his plate. “Always.”

“You can probably come back for seconds.”

“Oh, I will.”

“Where the hell do you put it?”

He gives me a wicked, hilarious grin. “Well, since you asked . . .”