Page 108 of Out of the Gold

Chase

I shovel thelast bit of broiled fish into my mouth. Thank God shooting ends tomorrow. Not a day too soon. Well, yesterday would’ve been better.

My fork clatters to the plate.

What the fuck happened with my costume today? I know Lindsay wouldn’t have done anything to it, but she did have access. Clearly Melody convicted her already. Losing my appetite, I leave my half-eaten dinner on the dining room table and flop onto the sofa. An ad for a musical runs on the TV.

“Fuck you,” I yell at the screen and hit the power button.

Flinging my arm onto my forehead, I study the ceiling and focus on Lindsay. If only I could explain my sister’s life better to Melody. Maybe she would’ve given her a break today. Although, I did tell her we basically raised ourselves with the help of some half-assed nannies our parents employed, more to keep up with the Joneses rather than provide us with any true guidance.

No, that’s my sister’s story to tell if and when she feels ready. The fact she got hooked on booze when she was a kid still tears me up inside. To think I contributed to her downfall . . . I pick up my phone and text her an encouraging note. She has so much strength to overcome the addiction.

And now she’s getting married. She showed me the rock last night. I’m happy she’s found someone who fits her so well, and definitely need to meet him once he gets out of rehab.

My smile turns downward when thoughts about my own personal life surface. Melody seemed to be perfect for me. Until she called me “Movie Star” today. She’s like the rest of them.

I sit upright and stare blankly around the hotel room. My one-hundred-fiftieth such room this year, but who’s counting?

Rage and disgust and frustration roil through me.

I jump to my feet.

Tossing my shirt onto the floor, I head into the bedroom. Might as well try to get some sleep so I’ll be ready for the big day of shooting tomorrow. If only I didn’t have to meet up withherat the ass crack of dawn to get sewn into my fucking costume. One more day. That’s it. And I’ll never have to see her again.

The doorbell rings. One of the perks of being in the hotel’s presidential suite is a doorbell rather than a knocker. Must be the wait staff coming to clean up from my dinner. Without bothering to put my shirt back on—why should I since my physique is honed to perfection, plus it’s what’s expected of me—I yank open the door and turn my back.

“The meal’s on the table.”

“Did you eat it?”

Melody’s voice halts me in my tracks. I pivot toward the door to verify I didn’t mishear. Nope. She stands in the hot pink dress I bought for her in Positano, her hair loose around her shoulders, wearing a pair of five-inch stilettos.

My hands contract into fists at my side. “What are you doing here?”

She stares at the floor. In a small voice, she asks, “Can I come in?”

“Why? Want to see how a movie star spends his evenings?”

She raises her gaze to mine. “Charles, no. I want to talk with you.”

The pleading in her amber-hazel eyes beckons to me. My heart pounds, but my brain refuses to agree. Pushing down the surging hope at her use of my given name, I reply, “You’ve said enough.”

She looks down the hallway and her chest expands. I shove my hands into my back pockets to stop them from reaching out to her.

“Charles,” she tries again, “I owe you a big apology.”

Out of everything that could’ve come out of her mouth, such a line would’ve rated a nine on the Rotten Tomatoes scale. Perhaps a ten? My pulse accelerates. Without moving, the words “Come in” are wrenched from my mouth.

The door shuts with a barely audible snick, and I close my eyes. Not ready to look at the one woman on earth who I thought was different, I spin around. Her next words suck the air right out of my body.

“I was wrong about your sister. I’m very sorry.”

I cross my arms, my gaze landing on the carpet.

“She told us about her drinking problem.”

“Problem?” I clench my jaw. “She almost died. Twice.” That I know of.

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