Page 11 of And I Love Her

Chapter 3

Jake Ryan stopped at the window of his rented beach cottage, his grip tight on his cell phone.

“You are dangerously close to destroying your career.” His agent’s voice rose over the bad signal and background noise of Los Angeles traffic. “And mine along with it. Do you have any idea how much money is on the table? A goddamned fortune. No way am I letting you throw it away. You need to lie low for a few weeks and let this shitshow die down.”

“You mean let people believe a fucking lie.” Tension shot down Jake’s spine. “I didn’t assault that asshole. Well, Idid, but not because I was drunk. I’d do it again, too.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Richard snapped. “I don’t care. He’s threatening to press charges, and all of his cronies are jumping on the Big Bad Jake Ryan story. They love the idea of taking down one of the biggest action stars in the country…and theFatal Gloryfranchise right along with it.Whyyou assaulted him makes no difference. You need to do whatever it takes to save your reputation, your career, and the franchise that provides a living for countless industry people and their children.”

Goddammit.

Guilt clawed up Jake’s throat. His agent knew exactly where to hit him where it hurt the most. Released five months ago, the sixthFatal Glorymovie was supposed to be the last one in the blockbuster franchise—until the studio, wanting to cash in on its continued success, green-lighted a seventh movie. The director of the previous five movies—a man who had been an excellent collaborator and friend to Jake—had opted out of directingFatal Glory 7.

Jake was less than thrilled with the new director. The brash young kid had also insisted on co-writing the screenplay, which took the Blaze Ripley story on an outlandish and implausible trek that Jake found entirely ridiculous.

His agent and the studio execs didn’t care. Richard also knew that Jake wouldn’t abandonFatal Gloryfor fear of putting so many people out of work. Directors, production crews, producers, marketing, advertising, even an amusement park ride…hundreds of professionals relied on theFatal Gloryfranchise for a paycheck. Jake couldn’t be the one to tear the rug out from under them.

Yeah, there were always other jobs and opportunities—it was Los Angeles, after all—butFatal Glorywas as close to “a sure thing” as one could get in the unpredictable, insane world of Hollywood. Jake didn’t want to take that away from anyone, no matter how frustrated he was getting.

“You still there?” his agent shouted.

“The latest script is ridiculous.” Jake couldn’t prevent the edge to his voice. “Blaze abducted by aliens? He’s a Navy SEAL who rescues people kidnapped by drug cartels and terrorists. The movies aren’t space operas. The script is turning the whole story into a farce.”

Richard sighed. “The story doesn’tmatter.”

“The story matters the most!”

“Look, the studio is already picking at my last offer because of the paparazzi mess,” Richard pointed out. “You can’t be bitching about thestory. If we play this right, you’ll still get close to double what they gave you forFatal Glory6. Time to look into private island real estate.”

“I don’t want a private island.”

“Then you’re an idiot. I still think you should go hide out in some backwater shitsville instead of the town where you practically grew up, but I’m not going to fight aboutwhereyou are as long as you stay there. You haven’t had any time off in…what, over ten years? Now’s your chance. Do some yoga, meditation, reading, whatever. No one except me knows you’re in Bliss Cove. Hell, no one would even believe it. Keep a low profile, don’t do anything stupid, and no one will find out.”

Jake let out a resigned breath. He stared at a seagull pecking at the sand outside. Gray clouds skimmed the horizon over the white-capped ocean and the long stretch of beach leading to the rocky cove. Lined with shops and restaurants, the boardwalk ran parallel to the water, the carnival rides and Ferris wheel silhouetted against the sky.

He’d been back in Bliss Cove for less than three days, and already he was restless, anxious for something todo. Something that didn’t involve contorting his body into a lotus position or trying to be one with the universe.

He knew he was lucky, far more so than most. He hated feeling guilty over wanting something different from what he already had—which was so much.

“You hear anything about Conrad Birch’s movie?” he asked.

Richard groaned. “You still stuck on that? I get it, man, but you gotta give it up. Birch has won three Oscars, including Best Director, and worked with all the major actors in town. Therealactors. They all want the role of Tom Dillon.All of them.”

You don’t stand a chance.

Though Richard didn’t say the words, Jake heard them loud and clear. Hell, he’d been telling himself the same thing for the past three months, ever since Conrad Birch announced his search for the lead role inTruth, his upcoming movie about a Vietnam vet who leaves his job to embark on a road trip that ends up changing and healing him.

Jake had read both the novel and the screenplay ofTruthat least half a dozen times. He knew Tom Dillon. He’d grown up with Tom Dillon—a restless, distant man who struggled to make connections with people.

But of course…Conrad Birch wanted arealactor to play Tom Dillon. Not the star of theFatal Gloryblockbusters with their multiple high-speed car chases and CGI explosions. And now, apparently, alien invasions and space-ray guns.

“Jake, we’re so close to finalizing the deal forFatal Glory.” Richard’s voice rose with worried urgency. “Don’t screw it up by jonesing for a role in Conrad Birch’s next movie.”

Jake pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ll lie low, but for no longer than a month.”

“Good.” His agent sounded satisfied, if still wary. “We’ll get on the tabloids and see what we can do to kill the assault story, or at least rework it in your favor. I’ll be in touch.”

The call ended. Jake tossed the phone onto the sofa and grabbed his camera.

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