Page 3 of Making It While Faking It
“Oh yeah, baby,” he repeats in what I’m certain is an American accent.
Does he fake his English accent? And if so, then Cherry must know the truth, because she doesn’t seem surprised by it.
I take a swift step back and paste myself against the wall. I feel so stuck between a rock and a hard place, and the frustration of it, the powerlessness of it, makes me want to cry. But I don’t want to cry over the mockery Simon’s made of our relationship. He hasn’t broken my heart, but my ego is definitely bruised.
What the hell, I mouth as I squeeze my temples. I have to get out of this godforsaken trailer. The heated air feels like it’s choking me. And with every thrust into Cherry Atwell’s eager vag, bile rises from my stomach into my throat, forcing me to swallow to keep from throwing up.
I’m shaking all over, but my steps stay quiet as I tiptoe away from the offensive act, clutching my stomach again. I feel even sicker realizing that I’ll have to come back later and pretend as if I haven’t seen them together. However, after I persuade him to stand behind me as I hammer out a new deal with Jaycee, the shit will roll downhill and bury him alive. That, I promise.
I release one shaky breath as I carefully open the door.
“There she is!” Brandi, one of the likable PAs, says way too loudly. She’s never looked so wired, and it takes me a moment to fully focus and comprehend the reality of why.
My jaw drops further. I’m aware that my feet should step over the threshold of Simon’s trailer. I should get out of the doorway. Otherwise, I risk them hearing us. But I can’t move an inch.
“Dad?” My tight, dry throat is barely able to choke out the word.
Even though tears stream from my eyes, I can see that my dad looks like the billions he’s worth in his expensive slacks, Italian leather shoes, and a black cashmere trench coat. Everything and everyone out here is covered in mud, grass, and pollen, but not him. He’s impeccable.
He looks as if he’s about to say something until his eyebrows pull up and his glare rises above my head to stare daggers at something behind me.
“Treasure? Doll? Did you knock?” Simon says using his English accent. His tone is lazy, like he’s trying to deceive me into believing that he’s been asleep and not banging Cherry Attwell.
Tears produced by sheer anger blur my vision as I turn to face Simon. He’s a few feet behind me, standing as if he’s trying to guard the hallway.
“What’s going on out there?” Cherry asks, appearing beside him, wrapped in nothing but a white sheet. Her barely visible feline smile is made just for me.
Simon and I lock eyes. I’m reading something in them that I can’t quite figure out.
“Um, well, okay,” Brandi says as if she’s found herself in a situation to which there is no real proper response to.
Simon grumbles something indecipherable to Cherry, who immediately scurries away.
He puts a hand on my shoulder, but I rip myself from his touch and rush down the short set of stairs.
My feet thump down the boardwalk and arrive in front of my dad, who is an immovable object. His familiar scent drifts over me, filling my eyes with more tears that I fight like hell to contain. And Leo hasn’t said anything yet. He’s just checking out the scene, for sure judging.
I hear Simon’s trailer door close. He must’ve cowered in the face of my dad’s hawkish glower. I’m satisfied that my dad has intimidated him. But all I can do is clench my back teeth to keep my chin from quivering. I can’t even ask my dad the obvious question, which is, what is he doing here. Because if I do…
Don’t cry, Treasure.
Don’t you even think about it.
Then, without saying anything at all, my dad wraps his arms around me, and for several seconds, being this close to his subtle and familiar apple-mint-vanilla-sandalwood scent makes me feel safe, secure, and—even though we haven’t been very close since he cut me off from the family’s money ten years ago—truly loved. So I release my tears with a shoulder-jerking, wet-face kind of ugly cry, knowing my dad just might make it all better.
What’s the Deal
TREASURE GROVE
Thankfully, my tiny trailer is mildly clean. I don’t think my dad cares how large my space is, but still, I want him to see that a small part of me has her shit together, and that is not what’s on display in this crappy trailer.
“You can sit here,” I say, pulling out one of two hard black plastic chairs, which are partnered with a rickety card table. I spot my unmade bed and resist the urge to groan about not making it. I barely made it out of here and to the set on time this morning.
My dad tilts his chin as if regarding me with concern as he lowers himself into the chair. He seems so tense and nervous as his probing eyes take in the space.
Feeling his gaze sink through me, I fold my arms tighter against my chest, thinking maybe I understand why he’s looking at me that way. “I know the trailer is small. It’s just, I’m rarely in this thing. Just to sleep. I’m mostly on set.” I frame my lips into the fakest smile on earth, hiding the fact that this trailer and being on set make me feel as if I’m dying on the inside.
“This is fine,” he says as he rolls his shoulders back to sit taller. But if it’s so fine, then why does he look so uneasy?
