Page 4 of One Life to Loathe

My agent had told me that. Over and over again.

How I had gotten the reputation for being difficult was beyond my ability to grasp. I was an easygoing guy. Or I had been. Somehow that had gotten away from me, though. The more people called me difficult, the more I lived up to their expectations. I’d had a chance to be an action hero, and I’d screwed myself. Then I managed to get a few roles in indie movies that could’ve elevated me, and I screwed myself there too because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. I was the guy who continually screwed myself.

And now I had screwed Samantha Summers. Not in the fun way of course—I knew better than getting involved with a starlet on this project because that never went my way—but I’dcompletely stolen the life from her eyes. She’d been excited when we first started talking. She’d believed we were going to bond over being love interests. She couldn’t possibly know that I was incapable of bonding over anything, though. So, what did I do? Was I polite? Did I feign interest? No, I messed up. That was my claim to fame. Now I’d messed her up, and I really did feel bad about it.

Despite telling myself over and over again that I should apologize during the interminable flight, instead I continued to down cocktails, and then, I’d taken a nap. All the while, Sam read her script and tried to pretend I wasn’t right next to her.

She was pretty. Oh, hell, who was I kidding? She was beautiful. You can’t even get episodic work in Hollywood unless you’re something special. Sure, some people managed to make it by being cast as the oddly normal looking best friend, but those roles were few and far between. No, Samantha—who preferred going by Sam if what she told the flight attendant was true—was definitely pretty. She had long blond hair, big blue eyes, and a dimple in her cheek when she smiled.

I’d only seen the dimple once. After she realized I wasn’t going to be any fun, she refused to acknowledge my existence.

I didn’t blame her. I was a jerk. I was a grade-A asshole of the highest order. No matter how many times my manager told me—or I told myself for that matter—that I needed to get it together and be a professional, I fell apart at the worst times. It didn’t take a licensed therapist to figure out why. I’d had everything and burned it down. Now, that was my pattern. I couldn’t break from it. I just kept burning things down.

Apparently, I was going to burn Sam down with me this time. Ah, well, she would get over it. Even pretending I shouldn’t be angry with myself didn’t work, though. I kept darting looks at her as we exited the plane. She’d struggled to claim her carry-onfrom the overhead bin so I’d pulled it down for her. She didn’t make eye contact when thanking me, though.

Good job, idiot.I could do nothing but shake my head at myself as I followed her off the plane.You completely botched this. I thought you were going to try to be nice for a change. Get along with your co-stars. Not be difficult.

I always made those promises to myself. I never followed through.What is wrong with me?If I had a dime for every time I asked myself that question, I would be rich. I saw myself being a jerk. I registered that I shouldn’t be a jerk. Did that stop me from being a jerk? No. I was just a complete and total piece of shit sometimes.

Sam looked over her shoulder when I sighed. Her blue eyes—they reminded me of the water in the Bahamas—were cloudy. This was my chance. I could apologize and say I was tired…or lie and let her believe I was a nervous flyer. Instead, I made things worse.

“Are you cataloging my finer qualities for your spank bank later?” I asked, internally cringing when her mouth fell open.

“Omigod,” she hissed before turning and increasing her pace.

For some reason, her reaction made me grin. She was scandalized by what I’d said. Her cheeks had turned pink. The only thing missing was the steam coming out of her ears. I moved faster to keep pace with her as she rolled her carry-on onto the moving walkway.

“Is that what you were doing?” I asked. “It was, wasn’t it?”

“I’m not talking to you.” Sam kept her back to me. “Just … go somewhere else.”

“You’re going to have no choice but to talk to me,” I countered. “We’re going to be on the same set together. Every single day. For a full six weeks.”

The look she shot me was withering. “That doesn’t mean I have to acknowledge your existence. I’ll just pretend I’m on ascience fiction movie with green screen and treat you like the tennis ball they use to track movement for CGI characters.” She said it in a sweet tone, but there was nothing sweet about her glare.

I burst out laughing. I couldn’t help myself. Most people were frightened of me because of my “reputation.” Not all of it was true. Most of it wasn’t true actually. Enough of it was true to make people fearful of me, though. Not Samantha Summers, however. She wasn’t having it.

I liked that about her … even as I reminded myself that she was off-limits. I’d promised not to burn this set down. I had to start building myself back up.

“That wasn’t supposed to be funny,” Sam huffed. “It was mean. You’re supposed to be upset that I was mean.”

“Sorry. I think my ‘cry when people are mean to me’ setting was skipped at birth.” I kept following her as she checked the signs for baggage claim. “If you want to practice being mean again later, I have an opening before cocktails.”

“Whatever.”

We had to ride an escalator down to the baggage claim area. At the bottom, there was a man in a chauffeur uniform. He had a sign that read Powell and Summers. It was only then that I realized the production had sent a car for us … but we were going to have to share it.

“Look at that,” I said, leaning in close to Sam’s shoulder as she pulled up short to stare in horrified disbelief at the sign. “It looks like you’re going to have another chance to be mean because we’re riding together.”

“No way.” Sam briefly closed her eyes. “This is like torture.”

“You love it, and you know it.”

“I do not.” Sam turned on me. “I don’t like being mean to people. I don’t like it when people are mean to me either. I just … don’t like it.”

“Aren’t you playing a witch?” I asked. “Witches are mean. Just think of it as method acting.”

“You are very annoying.”

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