Tidal

TIDAL

A Novel

Emily Snow

TIDAL

Copyright © 2012 by Emily Snow

All Rights Reserved. No reproduction

or utilization of this work without written

permission of the publisher, Emily Snow

Books.

This is a work of fiction. Names,

characters, places, and incidents are either

the product of the author’s imagination or

are used fictitiously.

Prologue

August 17

My name is Willow Avery.

Yes,
that
Willow Avery—
that

actress. The one who went off the deep

end three years ago. The one whose face

is plastered all over the tabloids this

morning. They don't give a shit if there's

more to me than meets the eye, that there's

so much more to my fall from grace, even

if nobody—other than my parents and

agent—knows what that is. Well, at least

nobody knew until a few hours ago.

And the thing is I’ve
always
cared

about what everyone thought of me, even

when it seemed like I didn’t. No matter

how hard it hurt, and no matter what I had

to give up, there was this sick part of me

that wanted approval. That still

desperately craves it. It’s just that now,

I’m not sure if I mind that everyone knows

the truth about me. Now, there's this guy

and he's not waiting for me to screw up.

He doesn’t care that I
have
screwed up.

But I guess all good movies stories

begin with a guy . . .

Chapter One

June 15

The driver my agent had hired for the

day slammed on the brakes, squealing the

SUV to a halt only a few inches from an

orange Metro bus. Behind our Mercedes,

someone laid down on his horn hard,

blaring it for what seemed like five

minutes. I welcomed the sound because it

was something other than the excruciating

silence that had consumed my life for the

last six months. Kevin, my agent, wasn’t

so appreciative. He turned where he was

sitting beside me in the backseat and

flipped his middle finger up at the rear

window, even though the other guy

couldn’t possibly see through the tint.

“Fucking idiot should get a ticket. Too

stupid to see traffic is deadlocked,” Kevin

muttered. Then, rolling his gray eyes, he

sighed. “It never changes, does it?”

I dropped my head back against the

beige leather headrest, lolling it to the

side so that the air conditioner blasted my

face, and stared out the window. Next to

us, a couple waited in traffic on a candy-

apple red Ducati motorcycle. Both of the

woman’s arms were tightly wrapped

around the man’s waist, and she rubbed

her fingertips up and down the crotch of

his jeans. He was wearing a huge, shit-

eating grin. If it weren’t for the cop in

front of them, they’d probably be

completely naked.

“No.” I exhaled a whoosh of air.

“Never changes. It’s insane.”

And that insanity was what I loved the

most about Hollywood. Somehow during

my 180-day stint at Serenity Hills I’d

forgotten just how hectic this place was—

how it was all abuzz, even at ten in the

morning when most people were just now

rolling out of bed. This past round of

rehab had been just the opposite.

Serenity Hills was all peace, all

therapy, and all “confront your personal

demons to save yourself”—all the time.

I had hated it, but as of an hour ago,

my six months were up. Freedom had

never felt so good. This time, I wouldn’t

let it go so easily. This time, I’d be smart

enough to limit myself and dull my senses

just enough to forget, but not to the point of

obliterating my reality.

I quickly shook that thought out of my

head, ashamed of myself. No, this time—

this time
I
would be different.

I sure as hell would never go back to

rehab.

“I am in control of myself,” I mouthed

before averting my gaze away from the

PDA-happy couple. I gave Kevin a sweet

smile as I combed my fingers through

strands of my long, chocolate-colored

hair. “You’re taking me to my hotel,

right?” I asked.

I was dying to submerge myself back

into the chaos and noise. For anything but

silence. That moment wouldn’t come until

I shook free of Kevin and his driver, who

he said doubled as a temporary bodyguard

since my own had quit last year.

Kevin’s thin lips parted in surprise,

and he stared at me like I was an idiot. My

hands froze, tangled in a wavy kink of

hair. I sucked in my cheeks as Kevin

rubbed the corner of his bottom lip

between his fingers thoughtfully. I’d never

liked when he did that because it always

meant bad news for me. Like he was about

to reveal the reason my parents hadn’t

picked me up was because they were

waiting for me in court.

Apparently, getting custody of your

adult child is the new thing.

Straining his neck against the collar of

his fluorescent yellow Polo shirt, Kevin

stopped fussing with his lip to say,

“You’ve got a lunch meeting with James

Dickson in forty-five minutes. Your dad

said your mom wrote you . . .”

My parents had written me about

lawsuits and judgments and more lawsuits

and on Easter, they’d sent me a glittery

card with a creepy grinning rabbit on the

front. Not once had they mentioned

anything about lunch with a film producer,

on the same day I left rehab. This move

was so typical of them that I wasn’t the

least bit surprised, just angry. And hurt.

“Cancel it,” I said, pointing at Kevin’s

iPhone; it was sitting between us in the

leather cup holder.

He shook his head, dipping it slightly

so the thinning patch in the middle was

visible. When he first started representing

me, ten years ago, he’d had a full head of

auburn hair, but now he kept it short-

cropped.

“Not smart,” Kevin said pointedly.

“I
just
got out.”

“People have gone back to work way

sooner, Willow.”

“I went back to work like this last time

and look what happened,” I snapped. It

had been a sitcom that was panned by

critics and charred to a crisp by everyone

else. There was nothing like reading about

how hollow your acting was, how far

you’d fallen.
Green eyes as flat and

lifeless as a porcelain doll, or worse,

like a
TLC
pageant contestant
, one of the trashy gossip websites had written.

And then I’d relapsed.

“My mom wrote that you guys were

booking me a new hotel, until I can find a

new place to rent,” I said in a calm voice.

Sliding across the leather seat so that

the sides of our bodies touched, Kevin

said in a low, warning voice, “You’re

almost broke. And if you want to keep

paying for your fancy hotels, you’ll meet

with Dickson.” When I began to give him

a pissy reply, he flicked his gaze up at the

driver, whose eyes were glued to the

deluge of traffic ahead, and whispered,

“You’re on everyone’s shit list. You stand

Dickson up and you can kiss any acting for

this year goodbye, unless you’re into

taking off your clothes and deep

penetration.”

“Don’t be disgusting,” I whispered,

swinging away from Kevin. I gripped the

edge of the leather seat and focused my

attention on the hem of the fitted color

block dress he’d brought me. I’d gained

ten pounds while at Serenity Hills and

was on the verge of looking like a sausage

stuffed inside of a pink, white and brown

wrapper, but I liked the summery outfit.

Still, I should have realized when the

rehab counselor brought me a Neiman

Marcus bag full of clothes to wear home

with the price tags still dangling from

them that something was going down.

Like a meeting with a producer.

But as much as I hated to admit it,

Kevin was right. Dickson or sex was

about it for me as far as acting went at the

moment. I didn’t care whether or not I

ever received a role again, but broke is

broke. Acting was quick, easy money. And

I already knew my parents weren’t about

to give me any of the money they’d made

off me over the years, or any of the money

I’d earned before I turned eighteen nearly

two years ago. I wasn’t set to receive any

of that until I turned twenty-one—in

thirteen months.

I pulled in a deep breath. “Do you

know what the part is for?” I couldn’t

imagine it being something big. Nobody in

their right mind would offer me a leading

role. Late last year, right before I checked

in to Serenity Hills, I had bailed on a

project that was based on some huge

bestselling fantasy book.

I’d never read it, but there was a copy

being passed around rehab. Some of the

girls had ignored me for days when they

found out I was the reason filming had

been delayed.

Kevin scratched his chin, cocking his

head to the side. “Your father told me they

sent you the script.”

Of course Dad did. I twisted my head

back to the window, glanced down at the

PDA junkies, and resumed raking my

fingers through my hair—this time so

forcefully it burned my scalp.

“Well, he didn’t,” I said.

“With that attitude, it’s no wonder

nobody wants to hire you.”

“Screw you too, Kevin,” I muttered.

But as I pressed my forehead hard against

the cold glass, I considered my agent’s

words. My attitude had nothing to do with

my lack of parts over the past few years,

though I was on the verge of being

blacklisted. I bared my teeth, frustrated at

myself for what I was about to do.

“Fine, I’ll go,” I said.

Kevin was already sighing in relief

before the first syllable stumbled past my

lips.

***

favorite restaurants, ten minutes late. The

hostess escorted Kevin and me to a square

booth adjacent to a towering wine rack.

Dickson was already there, sitting next to

a guy with tousled blonde hair, whose

head was down, focused on the menu.

His new assistant, maybe?

No, that couldn’t be it. James Dickson

was always pretty adamant about his staff

dressing professionally for business

meetings, especially his assistants. The

guy beside him wore a faded lime green

Hollister T-shirt that hugged his biceps

and chest—that lean muscular look I’d

always lost my breath over.

Maybe this was Dickson’s son. I

shrugged off that idea almost as quickly as

the last. For starters, I was pretty sure

James Dickson didn’t have any kids and

once again, he was too professional to

bring one to a meeting.

So who the hell was this guy? I

narrowed my eyes at the top of his head,

wishing he’d shift his gaze up so I could

get a good look at him, but he didn’t

budge.

Junction’s menu couldn’t be that damn

interesting.

Dickson stood, grinning broadly, and

he placed his hands on either side of my

shoulders, giving them a squeeze.

“Willow, it’s so good to see you again,”

he said earnestly as the hostess placed our

menus down on the table. She murmured

that our server would be with us shortly

before walking away.

“You too,” I told Dickson, returning

his smile. “Really, it is.”

Out the corner of my eye I saw a

flicker of light—a camera phone. I didn’t

blink, but I felt the familiar jolt inside that

I’d learned to control years ago. The

flashing was the one thing I hadn’t missed

while I was holed up in rehab, but it never

changed. That picture would show up on

gossip sites before I was finished eating