Never Say Never (4 page)

“Hey, girl,” Shondra says as I speedwalk through the lobby. Her nails end an inch past her fingers and are painted a fiery orange, matching the god-awful color of her eyeshadow. Her hair is up in a topknot, and she has on a dress that clings to her thin body. “How are you?”

Her green eyes meet mine, and I know her question is genuine. Word got out that I recently lost my mom and am struggling with the farm. Everyone pities me.

I fucking hate it.

Pity doesn’t do a damned thing. If they feel so bad, then bring me a bag of oats or buy a few bales of hay. I put on my fake smile.

“I’m okay,” I say. “Hanging in there.”

“Good. A few of us are going out for drinks. Weebly lets us out early on Fridays if we get our shit done on time,” she says.

“Oh, that’s good to know.” It’s the end of my first week. And no, I didn’t apply anywhere else. This is the closest press, and I’m barely making it now with a ten-minute drive into town for work.

“Want to come with?” she asks. “We’re just going to Cronie’s. Nothing fancy,” she adds with a shrug.

“No, thanks,” I say. “I have plans with a friend tonight. Maybe next time?”

“Sure thing.” She taps her acrylic nails on her desk and bites her lip, looking out the window. I go through the door into the workroom and take my seat at my desk. It’s in the back, close to Mr. Weebly’s office. I wonder if he did that on purpose.

There aren’t a ton of people working at the Yellowstone River Times, and most have been here for years. No one is rude at all, but I don’t fit into their tight-knit group. Not yet. Maybe not ever. I have no desire to make new friends.

Am I closing myself off? Maybe. Do I care? Not at all.

I fire up the computer and get to work, going through the edits of the article I wrote. My topics are assigned, and hardly any of them are newsworthy. Today, I read through my passage about Ginger Hetwick turning one hundred. I went and visited her in the nursing home two towns over. She’s wheelchair bound and has dementia. She couldn’t answer any of my questions.

I sigh as I approve the edits and send it back. It will appear in the Sunday paper. How much time has to pass before I can start speaking up, start telling Mr. Weebly that these articles aren’t the ones I want to write? It’s my first job. I don’t want to mess it up. I don’t want to come off as a know-it-all who just graduated. Everyone starts somewhere. Plus, I really need the money. I can’t afford to get in bad graces with my boss until I have something saved up.

My mind wanders to Phoenix, and the scars on my side start to burn. Suddenly I’m smelling smoke, hearing the horrible screeches of dying horses. Black surrounds me and I’m yelling out for Mom. I can’t see and I can hardly breathe. I scream for her between coughs.

And then she’s there, leading Phoenix through the billowing darkness. Her mane is on fire. It’s one of the most terrifying things I’ve ever seen. Mom tells me to go, to get outside to safety. I remember nodding and pulling off my jacket. I throw it over Phoenix’s mane and smother the flames. I hook my arm over the frail horse and she leads me out.

She saves me.

But it’s too late for Mom.

And now I’m sitting here at my desk, tears running down my face in black streams from my makeup. I tip my head, causing my shoulder-length dark brown hair to fall into my eyes. I flatten my hands on the desk, feeling the cool metal surface. I’m not in the barn. I’m here, at work. The smoke still wafts around me, the scent of charred flesh poignant in the air. My stomach churns and I shoot up, unsure if I’ll make it to the bathroom in time before I get sick.

I run through the workroom, aware of the stares I’m getting, and dash into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. I put both hands on the sink and lean over. Instead of vomit, a sob comes out of me. I suck it back. I am not going to cry at work. My body shakes as I hold it in, tears falling down my face.

Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I’m not ready. But what choice do I have? I can’t stay home, lying on a couch and crying all day. On top of paying household bills, I have grain and hay to buy. Phoenix has hefty vet bills, and I’m already getting a cut on the costs. I have to do it for them. Sundance and Phoenix can’t get their second chance if I let grief consume me.

I feel like I’ll never be happy again, like I’ll never be able to move on from the fire and the guilt and start life again. I lift my head and look at my reflection. I look like Mom. I have her green eyes, her high cheekbones. My hair is a shade darker, but there is no mistaking I’m her daughter. I realize that I’ve lost weight since the accident, a result of not eating I’m sure. It makes my cheekbones more defined, making me look even more like Mom. I tuck my thick hair behind my ears and study the face looking back at me. She’s almost unrecognizable. Dark circles, uncovered by makeup, contrast with the vivid green surrounding my pupils. The ends of my hair are a bit ragged and in need of cutting, but nothing inside of me drives me to put effort into my appearance anymore. It’s just not worth it.

I close my eyes and swallow the thick lump in my throat. I have to do it for Mom, to continue her life’s work of making life better for others.
You can’t save them all
, she used to say.
You won’t change the world, but you can change the world for one horse at a time.

And that is exactly what I’m going to do. No matter what, I’m not giving up. I’ll make it work somehow. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll find my own second chance.

Chapter 3

“I think it would be a great move,” my agent says, handing me a script.

I raise an eyebrow as I look it over. “You’re fucking joking, right?”

“I’m not fucking joking. Do you want to get typecast? You just finished the Batman remakes. You’ve got two more seasons of
Shadowland
. Don’t get me wrong, Aiden; you’re good playing the misunderstood hero. It’s time for a change before that’s all you can get. You’ll get old someday, and old actors don’t play superheroes,” he says back without missing a beat. After four years as my agent, Thomas doesn’t put up with my shit.

“I know.” I plow my hand through my hair. It’s down to my ears and annoys the fuck out of me. I keep it like that only for my character in
Shadowland
.

“Look.” Thomas takes off his glasses and leans forward, and I know he’s about to say something blunt. “You want to be a household name, right?”

“Of course,” I say back. “I am—”

“No,” he interrupts. “You’re well known with the action genre fans, but not with everyone. Not yet.”

I flick my eyes back to the script in my hands. “Go on.”

“This movie puts you in a whole new category.”

I can’t refute that. “But…” I start, and read the title, feeling something die inside of me. Is it my manhood? “It’s a chick flick. I mean, come on. I’ve never even heard of this guy,” I say as I tap the name of the author whose book is being adapted to the film.

Thomas shakes his head. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. And I suggest you step into a bookstore. His books—and the film adaptations—do well. Read the script. I’m calling you in the morning, and you’ll tell me you want this so I can tell the director you’ll be there for the screen-test.”

I huff but curl the script in my hand. “Fine. But don’t hold your breath. This guy…this cowboy…isn’t me.”

“None of the characters you play are you,” Thomas says in a dry tone. Yep, he’s done with my shit. I can’t blame him, really. I got my start in acting right out of school and landed the leading role in a trashy musical in West End. It was poorly written and could have ruined my career, but I fucking loved it.

Being on stage, being under the spotlight, and being someone else…it’s everything I’ve ever wanted. For a few hours I can stop being Aiden Shepherd and be someone else. My real life dissipates into oblivion when I’m on stage. I become my character. I don’t have to be Aiden, don’t have to deal with whatever the hell I should be dealing with.

On a whim (okay, I was slightly drunk), I went to an open casting for a leading role in
Shadowland
, and holy fuck, I got a call back. Things moved from there. I got an agent, another call back, the role, moved from London to California, then got more roles. Over the course of four years, I went from not making enough to get by to more money than I knew what to do with.

Playing the villain-turned-hero in
Shadowland
has changed my life. There is no mistake about that. I live and breathe that show. Knowing that it will wrap up after this current season is terrifying. I haven’t admitted that to anyone, and I don’t ever plan to. I’m Aiden Shepherd. Young, talented, attractive…I shouldn’t have fears this early in my career.

I leave the café in sunny L.A. and drive to my house, thinking over Thomas’ words. Typecast. It was a four-letter word among actors. It wasn’t something I wanted to be. But fuck, I like dark, badass characters. I like the underdog coming through, against the odds, kicking ass and taking names.

The last four years passed so fast, sometimes I wonder if they were real. We filmed three seasons of
Shadowland
and I did the Batman movies. It kept me in the here and now and out of the past.

I can’t go back there. I can’t think about the shit that happened. I can’t. If I do…well, it isn’t fucking pretty.

I haven’t gone there in years. It’s been blocked out, locked away in some fucked-up vault in my mind. It’s a ticking time bomb, but hey, that’s a problem for anther day.

The next day, I leave the screen-test with a new role. I should be ecstatic, but I’m not. At all. I unlock the door to my L.A. house and step into the large foyer. It’s two stories tall, with a curved staircase leading up to the second level. The house is empty, and every single one of its eleven-thousand square feet jeers at me, reminding me how alone I am in this monstrous house. I’ve lived here for two and a half years, but it doesn’t feel like my house. Nothing in it fits me, really.

I paid someone to decorate it. There are rooms I never use, rooms I hardly even go in. My favorite part of the house is outside. The patio was made for parties. Actually, I need to have one. I trudge up the curved staircase, footsteps echoing with no one to hear them, and go into my room. I should spend the weekend sleeping and resting, since I’m leaving for that fucking cowboy movie on Monday.

I get out my phone, send a few quick messages, and go into the master bathroom. I have time for a few hours of sleep as long as I get some assistance. I break a Tramadol in half and swallow it dry. I take a quick shower then take a shot of vodka from the bottle I keep in the top drawer of my nightstand. I lay down, waiting for the drugs to take over and pull me into a dull sleep.

I wake up three hours later and still feel tired. The bedroom door is open, and I can hear people downstairs setting things up for the party. I roll over on my stomach and try to go back to sleep, but the alcohol is out of my system and my mind turns on me, reminding me of all the things I try so hard to forget.

I sigh and mentally debate what to do. There’s still enough time for more sleep, but I don’t want to take anything else and not have it wear off before the party starts. I need an hour or two of good, sober behavior before hells breaks loose. If I take the rest of the pain pill, I might be in a fog when my friends come over. I have Adderall, but I hate taking that shit. It makes me anxious as fuck.

I get up, knowing there is stuff I should be doing, like going over lines. Instead, I open my MacBook and scroll through comments on my Facebook fan page, replying to just enough to give me good fan interaction but not too many to appear needy. Basically, I give them something to make them want more.

Claire texts me, making sure I’m awake and decent before she brings me espresso and something to eat. I hired her as my assistant before I could afford her, and she’s stuck with me through everything. Though she’s my employee, sometimes I feel like she’s one of the only friends I actually have.