Hollywood on Tap (16 page)

Good. That would just make finding the asshole easier.

Chapter Twelve

The photo shook in Natalie’s hand as she sat behind her desk. It had been torn it from an old copy of
People
magazine. The man pictured had to be in his early twenties. Brown, short hair artfully tousled, a surfer’s tan, and brown eyes that kicked her pulse into overdrive even when the man in question wasn’t within touching distance. And, of course, the thin scar just above one eyebrow.

Sean,
her Sean
, wasn’t Sean O’Dell at all.

The missing paperwork.

The W–2 he still hadn’t completed.

The way he never talked about family or his past or about anything much at all.

Her stomach sank under the weight of the realization, and she reached for her talisman. The round pearls felt warm to the touch as her fingertips slid up and down the strand around her neck.

She glanced at the clock. Only an hour ago, everything had been right with the world. And then Rupert Crowley with
Hollywood and Vines Reports
had strolled into her office and turned everything upside down faster than a tsunami.

“This can’t be right.” Her voice shook and she pushed the photo across her desk.

The reporter sitting across from her reclaimed the photo and slid it into a manila folder. “I’m afraid, Ms. Sweet, it is.”

Her fingers danced across her pearl necklace as her brain scrambled to put the pieces together, to force the story to make sense.

Sean was a movie star. Not just that, he’d been a damn good one. His face had been on the front of most major papers when he’d disappeared. Some said drug overdose. Others speculated he’d lost his mind.
The American Inquirer
even had a report that he’d been the
Misery
–style victim of an overzealous female fan.

In reality, he’d ended up as the brewmaster at a small brewery in Virginia. Yeah, it was going to take a while to make that fit under the “logical category” heading on a chart.

Fake sincerity clung to Rupert Crowley like cheap cologne as he watched her, no doubt mentally recording her every reaction. It took everything she had not to choke on the figurative stench. “There may be some resemblance.”

“Not
some
resemblance,” he insisted. “Sean O’Dell
is
Sean Duvin.”

Despite what her brain knew to be true, part of her couldn’t accept it. The Sean she knew would never lie about something like this. “You don’t—”

“Please, Ms. Sweet, I appreciate your loyalty to your employees, but I’ve been chasing this story for years. I’m not going to give up now.”

And he wouldn’t. The reporter practically hummed with fanatical determination.

“Why are you so intent on finding him?” Maybe if he left, they could go back to before. She could pretend this whole conversation never took place. The early stages of an anxiety attack pinched her lungs and she picked up the pace of her fingers traveling over the pearls.

“I’m a reporter. I chase the stories that interest my readers and with the new live webstream, viewers. And, for better or worse, they are fascinated by the disappearance of one of Hollywood’s hottest actors at the peak of his popularity. Imagine, if you would, Ms. Sweet, if LeBron James vanished, never to be heard from again. Even non–basketball fans would be curious about what had happened to one of the greatest players of all time and why he went into hiding.”

“So that’s what this is for you, a story?” Natalie divided her attention between his answer and maintaining slow, steady breaths, just like Dr. Kenning had taught her.

“In the beginning, I suppose it was.” Rupert leaned forward, an excited gleam in his eyes. He was in full storytelling mode and obviously enjoyed it. “It really is an amazing story. Sean started out as a child actor on kids’ shows and commercials, working steadily for years without any hint of trouble. Then he became a teenager and things got a little sketchy. Drugs, alcohol, and women were all easy to get for a teen heartthrob with a devoted following. If Tumblr had been as hot then as it is now, he would have been its biggest draw. Of course, that kind of life catches up with a boy. He showed up late to the set, refused to attend the mandated educational classes, and needed extra time in makeup to cover the results of his carousing. Directors and producers lost patience with him, and it looked as if he was going to be another Hollywood tragedy.”

Despite herself, Natalie was sucked into the tale. “What changed?”

“Oh yes, the third act.” Rupert rubbed his supernaturally tanned hands together. “So he shows up for an audition to play a dying teenager in a made–for–TV movie. He blows the casting people away, but he has this reputation following him, so they don’t want to hire him. In the end, they decide to take a chance. He won a Golden Globe for that part. More critically acclaimed performances followed in movies and TV until, only a few short years later, he was accepting an Oscar for best supporting actor. Then—
poof!
—he disappears.”

Rupert sat back in his chair, a self–satisfied, snarky twist to his thin lips.

Knee jiggling under the desk, Natalie reached for her cup in an effort to buy time for the deafening static in her head to fade back into the background. She couldn’t go back to that anxious place, not now. She took a slow, measured sip of green tea that had cooled long ago. The liquid did nothing to relieve her thirst or calm her churning stomach.

“Are you all right, Ms. Sweet?” Rupert narrowed his gaze, giving her an assessing up and down.

The perusal was predatory, but not in a sexual way. No doubt the reporter was looking for cracks in her armor.

“I’m fine.” She settled the cup on the saucer and clasped her hands in her lap. She inhaled.
Find a problem, fix a problem.
That was her mantra but this time, the problem had found her. She breathed out. “It sounds to me like he doesn’t want to be found.”

Rupert clapped his hands together. “Oh, but he doesn’t have a choice in that, because I’ve found him. Americans love a redemption story. They instinctively root for the underdog. Sean Duvin is a story that combines both. He’s the bad boy who made good when no one thought he had it in him.”

The static grew in her head, threatening to drown out the rest of the world. She had to get the reporter out of her office, but not until she understood. “Why him?”

He tilted his head. “What do you mean, Ms. Sweet?”

“Don’t be coy now.” The urge to reach across her desk and strangle the slimeball was running neck and neck with the anxiety shrinking her lungs into the size of raisins. She thought of Sean—not the man Rupert had described, but the one she knew. The whole situation failed the logic test. “Why chase a man who obviously doesn’t want to be found?”

He looked down and to the left before returning his gaze to her. “Let’s say I’m personally invested. Not the wisest choice for a journalist, but it does happen.” He flashed a blindingly white, insincere smile. “Finding Sean Duvin has become my life’s mission. My sword in the stone, if you will, Ms. Sweet.”

“And you see yourself as King Arthur?” The man’s ego was big enough.

He paused and looked up at the ceiling, as if parsing the ancient legend’s cast of characters. “More like Merlin, the man behind the scenes who makes everything work.”

She sucked in a deep, cleansing breath, forcing her hands apart in her lap and flexing her fingers. The tightness in her lungs lessened, and the static rolled back its volume.

“So what do you want with him?” Even though Sean had lied to her and everyone else at the brewery about who he was, there were few people she’d throw to a hyena like Crowley.

He shrugged his narrow shoulders. “What every reporter dreams about, an exclusive that will make their name.”

Bingo. What a sleaze. Of course, the side benefit of his ridiculousness was the slow abatement of her anxiety. It was hard to get worked up over an idiot. “And I had assumed it was to satisfy your viewers’ curiosity.”

“Oh yes, of course. Who could forget the millions of viewers and readers who’d love to know what happened to their favorite, Ms. Sweet?”

Obviously Rupert Crowley. “You don’t have concrete proof that our Sean is
your
Sean.”

His barking laugh filled the room. “I’m going to let you in on a trade secret, my dear Ms. Sweet. When you’re as close to your subject as I am, you don’t need concrete proof. You just know.”

“What even led you to Salvation?”

“The grace of God?” He laughed at his own joke. “Or in this case a tip from someone at the brewery.”

“Carl Brennan?” That would explain the verbal swipes Carl had made at Sean the other day. She’d meant to follow up with him, but had gotten distracted. That seemed to happen a lot around Sean whenever she pressed him for answers.

He shifted in his seat. “I never reveal my sources.”

“This whole conversation is ridiculous.” She stood and walked around her desk toward the door. “I’ll go get Sean and you’ll see how wrong you are.”

“No.” His hand clapped around her wrist. “Not yet. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention our little conversation until I speak to him first. After all, if by some slim chance it’s not the right Sean, well, there’s no harm in keeping it our little secret.”

She shook him off. “I don’t think—”

“Twenty–four hours, Ms. Sweet.” Desperation leaked into the words. “Can you give me that?”

Sean watched the deputy’s cruiser disappear around the bend in the road connecting the Sweet Salvation Brewery to the main highway. As he’d suspected, Carl was cooling his heels in the county lockup without bail, which meant they were back to square one when it came to figuring out who was fucking with the brewery.

Looked like Natalie was going to get that late–night stakeout she’d planned. At least she already had a flowchart worked up for it. He grinned to himself. He may have run screaming from her clipboard before, but the damn thing with her different–colored pens had grown on him—just like Natalie.

Suddenly he couldn’t wait to see her again and it had nothing to do with the brewery. Time to track his naughty librarian down. He yanked the door open and strode through the tasting room to the offices in back.

Without bothering to knock, Sean opened Natalie’s door and strolled in. “We need to talk.” He made it half a step before jamming to a stop.

Hailey stood behind Natalie’s desk, her fingers on the computer keyboard. She jerked up and slapped a hand over her heart. “Sean!” She took in a shaky breath. “You scared me. With everything going on around here, you shouldn’t be busting in on people.”

“Sorry, I needed to talk to Natalie.”

Hailey grinned. “What a coincidence, she’s waiting for you in your office.”

Couldn’t wait to see him, huh? That was just the kind of good news he needed after the past hour. “Great.” He pivoted and had one foot in the hallway when he pulled up short. “Can I help you with something?”

The office manager was already hunched back over Natalie’s computer. “Unless you can perform magic and revive my printer from the dead, I’m stuck using Natalie’s printer until the new one is delivered.”

“Left my wand at home today.”

“Isn’t that always the case?” She shook her head. “By the way, what’s going on with you and Natalie?”

Nothing. Everything. Something weird in–between that could turn into more. “Not sure.”

“Better figure it out soon. I don’t think she’s the type who waits around.” She hit a button on Natalie’s keyboard and the printer hummed to life.

“Ain’t that the truth?” He tipped his baseball cap and hustled down the hall to his office.

For the past fourteen minutes and thirty–three seconds, Natalie had ignored the papers laid willy–nilly on the filing cabinet, the two Styrofoam coffee cups stacked on the corner of Sean’s desk and the copy of her twenty–five–point plan flipped over so only the back page showed. The longer she sat waiting, the more pissed she became, but what she needed to say had to be said behind closed doors. If she walked out that door she’d make a scene, and that couldn’t happen.

She made plans and charts to avoid that ever happening again. Being in control wasn’t just important, it was everything.