Tidal (11 page)

De-stressing.

We walked through the hall into a

small laundry room. Paige moved past me

and motioned me through the door, into an

open kitchen that looked like it belonged

on an HGTV show. “You go ahead and sit

down over there.” She pointed to a

counter with a row of stools in front of it.

As I crossed the room, sending Miller a

text message as I walked, I heard the

refrigerator open. “So how are you liking

it?” she asked.

I glanced over my shoulder. “What?

Surfing?”

She laughed, probably because my

irritation was obvious. “It’ll get better. I

sucked when Cooper started teaching me.”

I slid on the first stool and leaned

forward, supporting my elbows on the

granite countertop. “How long have you

been doing it?”

“Six years.”

Cooper had been a surf instructor

since he was sixteen—practically a kid. I

wanted to be surprised by that, but for

some reason, I wasn’t. Suddenly, though, I

wanted to know if he’d made Paige work

on form and popping up on a surfboard for

two days straight. When I came right out

and asked her, she threw her head back, so

that her short black hair brushed her

shoulder blades, and laughed.

“He made you do that both days?” she

asked. She brought two plates with subs

over to the counter, placing one in front of

me. Then she bent down and fished two

bottles of water out of a cabinet. She

handed me one. “Does he not want you to

walk tomorrow or something?”

I opened the warm water and chugged

quickly to flush down the string of curses I

wanted to direct at Cooper. When I was

finished, I glared at the window. I could

see him—or at least what I thought was

him—a tiny dot riding a wave somewhere

in the distance. Maybe if he’d shown me

more than standing up on a surfboard in

the sand I could’ve floated out there to

push him down.

“You’re going to be good for him,”

Paige said, tilting her head to one side.

“What? The paycheck for him training

me? Right about now I’m tempted to ask

Dickson to hire you.”

She gave me one of those pointed are-

you-fucking-kidding-me-looks and then a

half-smile. “Sure. The paycheck. But if

you want to hire me I’d be cool with

that.”

We ate and talked about surfing for a

few more minutes before Eric popped his

head in to say her client had arrived. She

hopped off the counter, keeping her eyes

on mine. “Gotta go give this group surf

lesson, so make yourself at home until

he’s done. Good luck with studying your

script!”

I waited until she and Eric

disappeared to pull out my phone. If I

waited around for Cooper, I was bound to

say something screwed up that would only

make working with him even more

difficult. I sent Miller a text asking him to

come pick me up.

But before I went to the front of the

house, to the shop area, to wait for Miller,

I left Cooper a note using the blue Post-It

pad on the counter.

Hypothetically . . . it’s kind of hard

to get me into your bed if I’m too sore to

make it there in the first place. Thanks

for spending two days torturing me for

nothing.

-W

Then I folded it, scribbled his name on

the front, and tucked it under the purple

and white surfboard, which was still out

on the deck. Later that night, as I watched

the DVD Dickson had sent me for the

second time, studying the way Hilary

Norton made the role of Alyssa look as

natural as breathing, and waited for a call

from Jessica who’d texted she wanted to

talk, I received a message from Cooper.

10:53 p.m.
: I’m perfectly capable of
carrying you to the bed and doing all the

work.

10:54 p.m.
: And before you bring up

my little rule again . . . you won’t always

be my client.

This wasn’t the first time a guy had

been so blatantly obvious about wanting to

sleep with me, and it wouldn’t be the last,

but I climbed into bed with my script

fifteen minutes later wearing an enormous

grin. I laid in the dark with my phone mere

inches from my face, wondering if he’d

text again. Wondering what he was doing.

Wondering if I’d make a fool of myself

with him, and screw up all over again.

All I knew was that when I fell asleep,

it was the fourth night in a row with no

bad dreams.

Chapter Seven

June 21

“. . . available balance is twenty

thousand, one hundred and eighty nine

dollars and seventy three cents,” the

automated banker droned. This had to be

at least the twentieth time that I’d listened

to my account balance since Miller and I

left the rental house nearly half an hour

ago to head to my probation meeting, and

yet adrenaline still prickled through my

body, making my face and hands numb,

clumsy.

Yesterday evening, I’d come home

from a full day of training with Cooper—

stand up paddle boarding on a different

type of board at early dawn followed by

waxing our regular surfboards with

coconut-scented gunk for what seemed

like an eternity—and had thrown myself

into studying my script. When I finally

dragged myself into bed a little after

eleven, I fully expected to wake up this

morning to the shitastrophic bank balance

I’d had for a while now.

Before I fell asleep, I’d made up my

mind. In the morning I would call my

mother—wherever the hell in the world

she was right now because she hadn’t

been in touch with me since her call—and

if necessary, I would grovel for some of

the money I’d earned before I turned

eighteen.

Instead, I’d awakened to find that

Kevin had come through. My advance was

deposited at some point this morning, long

before I’d rolled myself out of bed.

“You look dazed,” Miller’s said, his

deep voice yanking me back into the

present, into the cramped interior of the

Kia.

I let the monotone voice tell me my

balance one final time before I hit the end

button on my phone and dropped it down

into my cluttered bag. “I’m good,” I

answered.

But even as I spoke, I could hear my

breath coming out in choppier gasps. My

hand slid up the front of my light blue

sundress to pull at the neckline. God, why

did it feel like it was slowly closing

around my throat to choke me?

The answer was clear and it had

everything to do with my own issues and

what I’d just heard on the phone. I’d spent

so much time stressing over the advance

money that I hadn’t stopped to consider

how I would react once it arrived. I

should have been ecstatic. I should have

been jumpy because I was happy to be

working and getting paid again, not

because I had a history of blowing all my

money on Roxies and partying even before

the online deposit status changed from

pending.

But I wasn’t stupid. I knew better than

anyone that telling myself I was too strong

to mess up again wasn’t enough to keep

from doing what I’d done to myself

repeatedly.

I smoothed back strands of dark brown

hair from my damp forehead and said

aloud, “I’m fine.” Because that was the

only thing I could be, right?

“
Right
,” Miller drawled.

I shrugged and sucked in another long

breath, wheezing as soon as the chemical

taste of air freshener collided with the

back of my throat. “You know you’d

accomplish the same thing with one of

those, right?” I jabbed two fingers at the

evergreen-scented clips crammed into the

center air vents.

“I only bought them because the car

was—” Miller paused mid-sentence and

though he kept his gaze focused on the

highway, I saw his brown eyes narrow

into thin slits. “For an actress you’re not

too good at changing the subject. Or

keeping up the poker face.”

So I’ve been told
, I thought. I checked

my reflection in the visor mirror so he

wouldn’t see me cringe. “How’s the Porn

Star Dancing gig going?” Miller had

landed a second job as a bouncer at a strip

club without even trying, and I’d heard

him dragging into his apartment at some

point in the middle of the night.

“At least you’re not denying that

you’re purposely trying to change the

subject.” Smirking, he added, “If lessons

with Billabong are getting to you this bad,

why not ask for a day off or better yet, a

slower pace?”

My feet froze mid-shuffle, and my toes

curled. Miller thought my sudden

discomfort was only because of Cooper.

A quick flush raced through me, eventually

settling in my ears until it felt like there

were flamethrowers being held to either

side of my head.

Was it that obvious that I was attracted

to the guy?

“It’s got nothing to do with him,” I

said hotly.

“If you say so.”

Miller and I said little else because a

minute later, he pulled the car into the

parking lot of the probation office and

nudged the Kia into a spot between a

police car and a giant Hummer. “See you

in a few,” I muttered, grabbing my bag.

Although the outside of the building

was a lot smaller than the ones like it I’d

been to before, the moment I stepped

inside, shivering under the cold blast of

air conditioning, I felt disgustingly and

completely at home. I checked in with the

woman at the front desk—who looked at

me curiously when I whispered my name

—and then took a seat on one of the vinyl

chairs in the waiting room.

“You don’t look like you belong

here,” a croaky female voice said from

beside me. Startled, I turned my gaze on

her. She was young—maybe a year or two

older than me young—but with a faded

look in her eyes. She lifted one of her

thinly plucked eyebrows high and asked,

“Let me guess? Drunk in public at your

country club?”

By the way she was looking at me, it

was obvious she didn’t know who I was,

and more than anything else, I was

relieved. The anonymity I’d found since

coming here was the best thing about

doing this movie.

Besides the money, I thought.

And your hot Australian surf coach
,

the voice in the back of my head added.

The girl’s eyebrow cocked even

higher, and she twisted her head forward,

as if she was waiting for an answer.

“Sure,” I said. “Why not.”

She raked her bottom teeth over the

corner of her lower lip and tilted her head

to the side, the motion sending her dyed

red hair flying backward and with it the

odor of sweat and stale cigarettes.

“There’s no point lying to me. I mean,

we’re both here, right?”

Yes, and probably for the same

reason
, I wanted to say. Instead, I

shrugged and said, “You called it. Just

giving you what you want to hear.”

Her lips curled into a sneer and I saw

her dig her shimmery-painted fingernails

into the armrests. She glared at me for

another few seconds, then turned her head

and slammed back in her seat.

A moment later, my name was called.

As I walked to meet the man waiting for

me in the open doorway, I felt the redhead

girl’s dark eyes following me. I caught her

confused expression just before I

disappeared behind the door. She was

mouthing my name slowly, squinting and

wrinkling her nose.

Hopefully, she wouldn’t make the

connection until much later, if she ever

did.

“This is Officer Stewart’s desk,” the

man said, tapping the top of the fifth

cubicle we came to. “You can go ahead

in.”

I was surprised to find that Officer

Stewart was years younger than my probie

in California and model pretty, with light

brown hair styled in a knot on top of her

head, a starched white shirt and high-

waisted pants and pumps that made me

feel like I was going to fall flat on my face

just looking at them. She gave me a bored

onceover as I took a seat on the other side

of the desk, and a few minutes later, stared

at me entirely too long when she escorted

me to pee in a cup.

After I passed the drug test—to her

surprise I was sure, because she glanced

between me and the cup several times

before tossing it in a huge trash bin—we

returned to her desk. She opened her

laptop and began asking me a series of

questions.