Costars (New York City Bad Boy Romance) (48 page)

“If you could have told me that, why
didn’t you?”

“It wasn’t any of my business.”

“It wasn’t any of your — then what are we
even talking about?” he asks.

“You wanted to know why you’re in the
position you’re in,” I answer. “That is, unless I misread what you were
saying.”

My phone rings.

“I just wanted to come and check on you,”
he says. “What’s so complicated about that?”

“Well, I’m doing fine,” I respond.

“What is up with you? You’re acting like
you don’t want to see me.”

“Maybe I don’t want to see you right now,”
I tell him.

It’s a simple enough phrase, but it’s one
that always seems to require an explanation.

“Why not?” he asks.

“Because I’m getting sick of explaining
everything,” I tell him. The ironic thing is that if he asks me to explain what
I just said, I don’t think I’d have a clear response for him.

“If you want me to go, I’ll go,” he says,
“but I’m here because I care for you. I wanted to tell you that whatever
happens at my hearing, I’m going to play this off as if you had nothing to do
with it.”

“I hardly did,” I tell him. “Once you had
it in your head you were going to try to get me into the clinical trial, it was
going to happen whether I did anything to help it or not.”

“What the hell is with you?”

“I’m tired, Jace,” I tell him. “I am tired
and I feel like my body is being pumped full of battery acid, and that doesn’t
feel so good. I’m tired of having to drag you along like some kind of errant
child. I’m tired of waiting to die. I’m just tired, Jace.”

“I’ll leave you alone then,” he says.

I want to tell him I’m sorry, that I’m
just lashing out. I want to tell him to come back.

I don’t.

He turns and leaves the room just as
swiftly as he entered it and despite everything else, I feel a tinge of guilt
as he walks away, but that’s something I don’t tell him, either.

Chapter
Eighteen

Saline

Jace

“What are you doing here?” I ask as
Melissa walks through my front door, almost bowling me over in the process.

“Men are fucking terrible, do you know
that?” she asks.

“Trouble in Shangri-La?”

“Seriously, what is it with you people?
You’d think Ty would have been thrilled that I was finally free and clear, but
once I ask him when he’s going to leave his wife, he starts stuttering.”

“Melissa,” I say, “I’m sorry you’re having
a bad day, but I really don’t-”

“Anyway,” she interrupts, “it got me to
thinking. You and me, we weren’t such a bad thing, were we?”

“I really don’t know how to answer that in
a nice way.”

“Yeah, I get that you’re pissed and
everything, but I mean, come on, the way we ended things? You can’t tell me
that there’s not something there,” she says.

“Melissa, you spent what I can only
surmise to be a good portion of our relationship cheating on me with your boss.
What makes you think that I’m eager to jump right back into that?”

“Jace,” she says, “I love you. I know you
love me. Yeah, things weren’t perfect, but can you honestly tell me that you
didn’t make any mistakes?”

“I made plenty of mistakes,” I tell her.
“That doesn’t mean that I’m just going to forget about everything that
happened.”

“Just think, though, we could go right
back to where we were and just forget it ever happened. You forgive me, I
forgive you. It’s really that simple. We built a pretty good life here, didn’t
we?”

“Melissa, what’s this really about?” I
ask. “I know you’re having a bad day because of what’s going on with you and
Ty, but you said yourself that you were miserable in our relationship.”

“That’s just because I wasn’t trying. I
don’t think you were, either.”

“Melissa,” I repeat, “what’s this really
about?”

“I don’t know,” she says, “it’s
everything. Have you ever been so sure that what you have planned for your life
is going to work out, and then one day it’s just gone?”

“Yeah,” I tell her, “pretty recently,
actually.”

“What happened to you?” she asks, and I
give her the condensed version of what’s happening in my little slice of hell.

It’s surprisingly quick to sum it all up.

“You know what you did wrong?” she asks.

“What’s that?”

“You didn’t talk to her before you talked
to Dr. Preston,” she says.

“How was I supposed to talk to her before
him?” I ask. “I didn’t even know he was coming.”

“I’m not saying that you shouldn’t have
talked to him at all, but you should have talked to Grace before you decided to
nix Plan B,” Melissa says. “Have you ever bothered to consider that she may
have only signed off on the trial because she thought you were protected? She
would have lied to protect you. Hell, just to get into the trial, you know that
she already did. All she wanted was the choice, but you took that away from her
without asking.”

“I guess I never saw it that way.”

“Anyway,” she says, “I’d say the damage is
done, so how about we get back to the topic at hand.”

“You don’t want to be with me,” I tell
her. “You’re here because you’re used to being here. You’re used to coming to
me when things aren’t going your way, but that part of our relationship is
over. Even if it weren’t,” I continue, “that wouldn’t mean that you and I
should get back together.”

“I know!” she shouts. She’s pacing the
floor in the living room now. “I’m just sick of feeling alone. I felt alone
with you because I pushed you away so I wouldn’t feel guilty about sneaking
around with Ty. I felt alone with Ty because he always had to go home to his
wife and that’s apparently where he wants to stay. I’m just sick of being alone,”
she repeats.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I really am, but
you can’t think that the two of us pretending like we’re something we’re not is
going to make things better.”

She’s quiet.

“That’s not how it works,” I tell her. “If
we did that, you’d feel just as lonely because you’d know that what we’d have
wouldn’t be real.”

“I don’t care if it’s real. I’m just sick
of always being in the background.”

“I’m not the one that put you there,” I
tell her.

“Don’t you think I know that,” she says.
“I’m not saying this is your fault, I’m saying that I’m sick of it being mine.”

The truth is, despite how uncomfortable
the situation, a big part of me is happy to see her back in my apartment. You
don’t just throw away years with someone without having some kind of residual
feelings.

“Do you really think we could go back to
the way things were before?” I ask. “I find that hard to imagine.”

“We really could,” she says. “The one
thing that got in the way is out of the way. Maybe we just start off with a
drink.”

I do feel like drinking.

“I don’t know if I have anything,” I tell
her.

“I brought you a little something,” she
says, opening her purse.

She pulls out a fifth of blueberry vodka.
It’s my kryptonite.

“I don’t know,” I tell her. “Nothing’s
going to change, and I don’t want you to think I’m leading you on.”

“You’re pretty conceited, you know that?”

“Yeah,” I tell her. “Actually, I do.”

She goes to the kitchen and I’m having
trouble getting my head straight. On the one hand, Melissa and I really did
have our good times together. There were a lot of things that I wasn’t willing
to live with anymore, the affair with her boss first and foremost on that list,
but there’s a lot to miss.

She comes back with two shot glasses and a
smile. “I know you’re not sold on it yet, but I really think this is going to
be the best thing for both of us,” she says, pouring the drinks.

I don’t know, maybe she’s right. Maybe we
both just lost sight of what made us work in the first place and maybe that’s
something we can fix.

I just wish Grace would return my phone
calls.

Chapter
Nineteen

Swan Song

Grace

Back in the chemo suite for the last day
of getting pumped with liquid death: this is my bargaining chip.

The one thing that people love more than a
deal that brings in a lot of money is a deal that gives them a lot of good
press and makes them look like a Good Samaritan while still making some money.
That’s my hope, anyway, even though I have no reason to believe in the veracity
of the theory.

The truth is that the biggest bankroll
will win ninety-nine out of one hundred times. The other time, someone’s got
their feet to the fire.

The doctor comes in and checks my bag.
It’s about empty, but he tells me it’ll be a few more minutes.

My phone rings, and I’m slow to answer it.
Right now, everything’s kind of slowed down.

“This is Grace Miller,” I answer.

“Did I get this address right?” Andrew
asks. “I’m out in front of a hospital.”

“Yeah,” I tell him. “My assistant Margaret
should be waiting for you in the main lobby.”

“Why are we meeting in a hospital?”

“I had a previous engagement that I
couldn’t get out of.”

He knows I’m sick, so he must know what
I’m planning to do. Still, he comes up to the room. When he walks in, his face
tightens as he tries to override any natural reaction he may have and replace
it with a smile.

“Grace,” he says, “it’s good to finally
meet you face to face.”

“It’s good to meet you, too,” I tell him,
extending the hand at the end of the arm with the needle sticking out of it.

Gingerly, Andrew shakes my hand. “I’ve got
to tell you,” he says, “right now, the boss is thinking of going with one of
your competitors.”

“I’m sure he is,” I tell him. “I forget,
your last name is Evans, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he says, looking around at the
other patients in their own recliners in the chemo suite. “Look, I don’t want
to be the bearer of bad news, but-”

“Andrew,” I tell him, “you and I have a
bit of history, don’t we?”

“I guess.”

“You guess,” I scoff. “We’ve been talking
for almost a year.”

“Yeah, but to be honest with you, I never
really thought you’d make an offer. Speaking of which,” he says, “what is it?”

“I’m sorry, what is what?” I ask, playing
the only card I have.

“What is your offer?” he asks, looking at
the silver bag of chemo hooked to the other end of the tube, supplying my
bloodstream with the drug.

“Ten,” I tell him. “It may not be much,
but we’re going to let you hang onto a lot more of your station’s flavor than
any of the bigger guys will.”

“Ten million?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe if that word started with a b,” he
says, “we might be able to do something, but you have to know that we’ve been
hearing numbers that make yours, well, kind of insulting.”

“It’s certainly not my intention to insult
you,” I tell him. “I’m just coming to you with what I have.”

Playing the victim isn’t really my cup of
tea, even when I
am
a victim, but
it’s keeping him in the room.

“I appreciate that,” he says. “How are you
doing with your treatment, by the way?”

I’ve almost got him, but the space between
almost and definitely is going to be next to impossible.

“I’m still here,” I tell him. “Other than
that, I’d say you might want to ask me again when I’m a little farther away
from this room.”

“I have a cousin that had cancer,” he
says.

Anyone who’s ever walked into a chemo
suite will be able to tell you that it’s difficult knowing how to act. Over
time, you learn when to smile and when to ignore, but unless Andrew here’s been
through the treatment himself, I’m pretty sure he’s working without a net here.

“How did that turn out?” I ask.

Cancer stories, even when they contain the
word “remission,” don’t often end well. Judging by the long pause, I’d say that
would be the case with Andrew’s cousin.

“I’d rather not talk about it right now,”
he finally says.

“Okay,” I tell him. “Let me tell you what
our money gives you that nobody else’s will. First off, you get to keep most of
your programming. Over the first year or so, we’ll slowly start to introduce
more of our content, but we have no problem with you keeping your higher rated
shows. Higher ratings are good for both of us here.”

“That’s great, but-”

“Hold on,” I tell him. “Along with keeping
a few of the more familiar faces, you’ll also get great publicity out of it. I
mean, do you really think viewers are going to be impressed if you turn their
beloved station into just another face for the big six?”

“Grace, you’ve got to understand that this
is business,” he says. “We’ve got to make the best profit we can so we can do
the things we want to do.”

“How much are the other guys really going
to let you do?”

“They said we could keep all of our
programming for one year,” he says. “From there, if we make a good impression,
they may syndicate a few of our shows and-”

“You really think that’s going to happen?”

I’m just killing time now. My secret
weapon is running a little late.

“They’re willing to put it in writing,” he
says.

“Well, that’s the ballgame then, isn’t
it?”

“Grace, I’m sorry-” Andrew starts.

“Ten million isn’t a lot of money in our
business; I know that,” I tell him. “You’ve got to understand that we were a
lot like you guys for a long time. Hell, we’re still a lot like you guys. How
long do you think it’s been since the people leaving messages for your bosses
and your bosses’ bosses have been able to say that?”

“I would imagine it’s been a very long
time,” he concedes. “As you know, our station hasn’t been faring very well
lately, but your board has thrown us quite the life preserver.”

“I take it your mind is made up, then?” I
ask.

“I’m sorry to say it is,” he answers.
“After all we’ve discussed over the last year or so, I felt that I should be
the one to tell you, and I wanted to be able to tell you to your face.”

“That’s a shame,” I tell him. “By the way,
have you ever given a press conference?”

“No,” he laughs. “Why would I ever have
given a press conference?”

“No reason,” I tell him as Mags comes
through the door.

“They’re ready for the two of you,” she
says.

“Give us just another minute,” I tell her.
“The doc still needs to unhook me from my chemo drip.”

“Do you want me to track him down?” she
asks.

“If you would, Margaret,” I answer. God, I
hate calling her Margaret.

“Who’s ready and what are they ready for?”
he asks.

“I took the liberty of setting up a nice
press conference just off the hospital property,” I answer.

Now he has that look in his eye. He knows
exactly what I’m planning.

“No,” he says. “I won’t do it.”

“I don’t think you’re going to have that
much of a choice,” I tell him. “We were planning on announcing today, and I’d
bet that the print reporters Mags has sitting in the waiting room are going to
tell their people if you leave a poor, sick, dying woman hanging right after
she’s just gone through chemo.”

“You’re trying to smear me — and by
extension KJBP,” he says, stating the obvious. I’ve always wondered why people
bother stating the obvious. Isn’t it already, well, obvious?

“I’m trying to give you the opportunity to
come off like a saint and KJBP a savior,” I tell him. “The fact that once you
leave this room, you’re going to be answering questions from the press while
someone wheeling me right behind you shouldn’t make you nervous.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but before
he can, I make my move.

In preparation for this round of chemo, I
went ahead and shaved my head. I find that better than waiting for it to just
come out on its own. This way, I don’t have to worry about half my hair coming
off my head with a stout breeze.

Andrew doesn’t know any of that, at least
until I reach up and slide my fingers through the hair of the black wig I’m
wearing and lift it off my head. “What are you doing?” he asks.

“Just making myself more comfortable,” I
tell him. “These things can get so hot after a while. They really don’t
breathe.”

“So if I don’t go out there and announce
that we’re taking your offer, you’re going to make me look like a monster,” he
says.

He’s very astute.

“It’s not going to work,” he says. “Even
if you smear me, it’s not going to change anything. You don’t have the money or
the influence to strong arm us like this.”

“You’re right about the money,” I tell
him. “The influence, though — the press has enough of that on its own.”

The doctor comes into the room and checks
my bag, saying, “Looks like you’re done for the day, Grace.”

“Thanks, Doc,” I tell him, feeling sicker
than confident. Oddly enough, that might just work for my benefit. “Would you
mind if I take a puke bag to go?”

Andrew glares at me.

“Not at all,” he says and grabs one of the
blue plastic bags with the plastic handles and gives it to me.

“Margaret!” I call.

Mags comes in the room, and I tell her to
grab my chair, that Andrew and I are ready to meet the public.

“I’m not going to give a press
conference,” he says. “You may get a few reporters to see me leaving, but it’s
not going to be the story you’re hoping for.”

“That’s certainly your choice,” I tell
him. “You really can’t make a person give a press conference when they don’t
want to, so I guess I’ll have to do it myself. I just hope this doesn’t get
picked up on social media. I certainly wouldn’t want our competitors to think
that your public image is so radioactive they have to end up withdrawing their
proposals.”

“Grace,” he says, “is this really what you
want to do? We have a history. We have-”

“We’ve talked on the phone and you’ve been
dragging your feet ever since our first contact,” I tell him. “If you’re trying
to appeal to our longstanding friendship, I’m afraid you’ll find that only
works when there’s a longstanding friendship to appeal to.”

Not my best pitch, but hey, I’m not at my
best here.

“I’m sorry it has to be this way,” he
says. “I was really hoping we could work together.” With that, he turns and
leaves the room.

“I think it’s our time in the spotlight,”
I tell Mags and I move to the wheelchair.

This probably isn’t the ethical thing to
do here, but it’s my only shot at getting what I’ve been working for ever since
I started with Memento. Is it going to work? I’m not getting my hopes up.

Mags wheels me out to the waiting room
where we find Andrew being accosted by reporters. Hospital security is trying
to convince everyone to leave, but not before Mags wheels me up next to Andrew,
still holding the puke bag in my hand.

“Miss Miller,” one of the reporters says,
“how is your treatment going?”

The press loves a good human interest
story.

“Well, to tell you the truth, Charlie,” I
start — yeah, I learned the reporter’s name about half an hour ago, “it’s not a
walk in the park. It was really nice of Andrew here to come and pay me a
visit.”

Andrew looks down at me, still trying to
manage the nerve to say something.

“You all need to leave right now,” one of
the security guards says.

Everyone starts filing down the hallway,
and as quickly as Andrew tries to walk, Mags keeps me right next to him on the
way down the hall. We get to the elevator and Andrew presses the button. I
motion for him to come close.

“Why don’t we have a little talk on the
way down?” I ask.

“You’re out of your mind,” he says.

“Well, either that or it’s you, me, and a
few reporters from some of the better circulating newspapers in the country,” I
tell him.

The elevator door opens and Andrew
hesitates a moment before going in.

“Just you and your assistant,” he says.

“Mags?” I ask.

She wheels me into the elevator with
Andrew and once the door closes, I get back into it.

“Can you see the headline?” I ask.
“Representative from KJBP Runs from Cancer Patient.”

“This isn’t going to work,” he says. “I’m
not going to answer any questions.”

“That’s your choice,” I tell him, “but you
know the press. If you don’t give them a comment, they’re going to come to
their own conclusions.”

“Why are you doing this?” he asks.

“You’ve never met someone who’s got
nothing to lose, have you?” I ask. “You may make a deal that’ll get you a big
office in a nice, tall building, but those pictures of you coming out of the
chemo suite with me in the background all bald and sad-looking are going to be
with you pretty much forever. It’s really up to you what the caption beneath
them turns out to be.”