Page 41 of Bad Reputation

“No.”

As a teacher, Maggie had made friends with silence. In her first few years on the job, she’d ask a question, and if someone didn’t answer itimmediately, she’d want to fill the void—to rephrase her question or to offer a little hint or to just answer the damn thing herself. But sixteen years later, she felt none of those impulses.

Ten seconds slipped by. Maybe a minute.

Finally, Tasha offered, “I ran into Rhiannon at the gym this morning.”

Maggie was the only person here who didn’t hit the treadmill first thing. The gym was obviously theWaverleyequivalent of the watercooler. “Filming went well last night.”

The call sheet that had arrived in Maggie’s inbox earlier today said the second unit was shooting B-roll, and then there was a bunch of Jacobite stuff shooting at the set they’d used yesterday.

No kissing and no nudity meant no Maggie.

“That’s what Rhiannon said.” Tasha appeared to be murderous about it. “I had a text from Cole too.”

Cole was definitely trying to help out Tasha and, by extension, Maggie. Her heart did a hop, skip, and a jump about that, but Tasha’s trauma had to come before Maggie’s drama.

“I realize I’m being a bitch, and it isn’t personal.”

“I never thought it was,” Maggie said quickly.

There was another epic silence. Then Tasha said, “Have you seenCosa Nostra?”

“I have.”

“Do you remember those Oscars?”

“I remember your dress.” It had been an engineering marvel: strapless peach silk that was minimalist in the front but somehow backless with a sweeping train. Tasha had worn what appeared to be a royal vault’s worth of diamonds: in her hair, around her neck, dripping down her arms. She’d been fresh and radiant, beyond beautiful—and she hadn’t left public consciousness since that moment.

After those awards, her style had never again been that overtly feminine. A decided edge of I-could-fuck-you-up-if-I-wanted-to had creptinto her persona, and on screen she’d become a professional ass kicker. But that movie, that night, had started it all.

Or maybe it had ended something.

“I remember you came with Vincent Minna.” That was risky, injecting him into this conversation, but Maggie suspected she’d been right when she’d said to Zoya that that movie was the key to unlocking Tasha’s pain.

“Uh-huh.” Tasha betrayed no emotion. She didn’t so much as bat an eyelash or flinch. She was obviously used to taking a high-definition close-up.

It had been almost twenty years ago, and Tasha was younger than Maggie. “How old were you?”

“Eighteen at the Oscars. Seventeen during filming.”

Maggie managed not to gasp but only barely. “That’s pretty young.”

Something broke in Tasha’s face. Her eyes shot to the ceiling, to the floor. She found her composure again, but her voice was reedy when she spoke. “You know when you’re a kid and people say ‘You have an old soul’ or ‘You’re so mature’ or ‘You grew up in this business, you’re already a pro,’ and it feels like a compliment? None of those are fucking compliments.”

The time for patient silence was done. Tasha was asking Maggie to ask, so she did. “What happened when you filmed that movie?”

“I never talk aboutCosa Nostra, you know. When people ask me, I change the subject. I talk about something else instead, fitness or my hair—as if I care about my freaking hair. You’d think people would’ve noticed, would’ve pressed me or asked other people about it, but no one ever does. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. No one ever fucking seesme. I’m like a Rorschach test.”

No, Tasha was more like Mount Saint Helens, rumbling and smoking and about to level the place when she blew. The force of her rage was palpable. A seismometer could’ve measured it.

“Isee you,” Maggie insisted. “I see that you haven’t done a nude scene sinceCosa Nostra. I see that you’re scared. I see that I could helpyou.” That last bit was hubris: Maggie hoped it was true, but she wasn’t certain.

Tasha scoffed, not dismissively, but sadly. “I knowWaverleywon’t be likeCosa Nostra. I trust Zoya, and I trust Cole. He’d never hurt me or make me uncomfortable. Ever. And even though I don’t really know you”—she took a breath—“I’m not afraid this will be like that.”

What wasthat, though? Tasha hadn’t answered the question.

Maybe Maggie didn’t need her to. “I don’t want you to talk to me about what happened if you don’t want to. Honestly. I think we can work together even without that disclosure. But I think that if you’re not talking to someone about it—like a therapist—then you’re probably not healing. And it’s clear you have an open wound.”

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