Page 2 of Trusting Blake
Okay.Deep breaths. Calmdown. Think clearly.
In Hollywood, an affair between two A-listers is huge. I have seen it happen to others in the industry so many times before. It completely takes over the entertainment press. Dad’s and Laurel Peyton’s careers are going to be ruthlessly torn to shreds, and everyone around them is going to be dragged into the drama. That means Mom and me.
I cannot, despite my fury and my heartache, make things worse.
I can’t say anything. To anyone. I can’t discuss my feelings with anyone but family. And I certainly shouldn’t be yelling crap about Dad to strangers in his hometown.
All I can do right now is get back to the ranch, pack my bags, and book the first flight back to LA. There is no time for goodbyes, not for Savannah and Tori, not for Blake. I need to go home, because this is one family secret I can’t be left out of.
And when Sheri’s van skids to an erratic halt five minutes later, my chest heaves.
“Oh, Mila. . .” Sheri whispers as I throw open the door and climb into the passenger seat.
Sheri looks older somehow. There are lines of frustration etched around her eyes, a paleness to her skin, and disappointment in the heartbroken look she gives me. Still, she is a thousand times more composed than I am.
“How could he do this?” I rasp, staring numbly ahead at the windshield. “Again.”
“I don’t. . . I don’t understand him,” Sheri says with an intense exhale of air. “I’m so sorry, Mila. I don’t know what to say.”
I don’t know what to say either.
We head back to the ranch in silence. Even the radio is switched off, and the burning beam of sunlight hitting my face makes me. . . angry. My mind feels like storm clouds and rolling thunder.
The Harding Estate’s luxurious security gate and stone walls loom like a fortress in the distance as we weave down the winding back road, and the closer we get, the deeper the splices of my heart cut.
I hate this life.
I hate Hollywood. I hate the media and the paparazzi. I hate the production companies, the fans, the security guards. I hate Dad’s management crew, I especially hate Ruben fucking Fisher, and I hate the thousands of mindless rules forced upon me. I hate the feeling of the world watching me.
And I hate these stupid security gates and everything they represent.
But mostly, right now. . . I hate Dad.
I hate what he has done to our family.
To me, to Mom, to Popeye, to Sheri.
Before I realize what I’m doing, I’ve slammed my fist straight into the dashboard of Sheri’s van. I scream. Really, really scream. My throat hurts, but still I scream so loud I’m sure I can be heard from miles away, and I pound my hands uncontrollably against the car in a fit of rage.
“Mila!” Sheri yells, slamming the brakes. She grasps my wrists and fights against me to keep my balled-up fists steady, but I thrash against her until I finally admit defeat and burst into tears.
“I HATE HIM!” I scream between sobs.
“I know, I know,” Sheri says soothingly, pulling me in tight to her chest. She strokes my hair, her chin resting against the crown of my head, and she holds me for what feels like forever.
It’s the sound of a phone ringing that breaks us apart.
It’s not mine. I turned mine off already and have no plans to turn it back on anytime soon, but Sheri grabs hers from the center console and frowns at the screen.
“It’s your mom,” she says.
“My mom?” I snatch the phone from Sheri’s hand and accept the call, pressing it to my ear.
For a fleeting second, Sheri almost tries to grab the device back, but then thinks better of fighting with me in my current irrational state.
“Mom, it’s me. I’m coming home,” I burst out, my words rapid-fire.
“Mila. . .” Mom breathes across the line. Her voice is cracked, dry, like she has shed a million more tears than I have. “You aren’t coming home.”
