Tidal (2 page)

lunch.

What Not to Wear

Willow Avery: The Post Rehab Files

Ten Pounds and Counting as She Pigs

Out at Junction

The world would feed off my

downfall, savoring every morsel, and

there wasn’t a thing I could do to stop it.

I pulled away from Dickson’s grasp to

slide into the booth. Kevin came in right

behind me, grinning like the cat that ate the

canary.

“You haven’t changed a bit,” Dickson

said, once he was settled into his own

seat. As I let his words register, I fought to

keep from flinching, to keep the look of

defeat out of my green eyes. Because he

was lying.

I
have
changed.

And in more ways than just the tiny

frown lines at the corners of my eyes and

the thin, silvery scars on the inner elbow

of my left arm (from an escape I’d only

tried a couple times, over a year before).

The last time I worked with Dickson

was more than five years ago. I’d played

the lead in a modern day Sleeping Beauty,

minus the creepy magical fairies. Back

then, I had been box office gold and the

only thing I’d wanted to do was act.

But now . . .

“I’m not popping gum,” I said in a

high-pitched voice, and Dickson chuckled.

I compelled myself to laugh along with

him. The winter we shot
Sleepless
, he’d

stayed on my ass about chewing gum

during scenes. The guy sitting next to

Dickson released an exasperated sound,

and my attention wavered back toward

him.

As if he finally remembered that we

weren’t alone, Dickson’s eyes widened

and he said, “Ah, I’ve been rude. Kevin,

you’ve already met Cooper, right?”

Kevin bobbed his balding red head.

“Last week, at the meeting with Tiff and

Jason,” he said, shooting me an apologetic

look.

My parents and my agent had met with

Dickson already, which meant Kevin had

lied to me in the Mercedes when I asked

him about the lunch date. I pinched the

inside of his thigh under the table. He

winced, but never dropped the sleazy

smile.

Creeper.

“Willow, meet Cooper,” Dickson

said, motioning to the blonde. “Cooper—”

Cooper kept his eyes attached to his

menu when he acknowledged me.

“Everyone knows who Willow Avery is,”

he said, in a quiet voice brimming with

sardonic undertones.

Holy hell, he had an accent.

A deliciously sexy one that I suddenly

wanted to hear more of, so I could place

it.

“I’m Cooper Taylor,” he said.

Australian. Definitely Australian.

Extending his hand across the table, he

finally peered up to take me in. Even

though he was mocking me seconds

before, I was mesmerized by his eyes.

Fringed in sooty, dark lashes, they were

blue—the bluest I’d ever seen, actually—

and set in a classically gorgeous face.

I took his hand, sucking in a breath

through my nose as his fingertips closed

around mine, as our flesh intertwined.

Both our eyes dropped to our hands, and

my pulse went from 0 to 60 in less than

two seconds. When I parted my lips to

speak, but didn’t let go of him, he pulled

away. Tilting his head to one side, Cooper

gave me a flash of straight, white teeth.

“I’m Willow Avery,” I said, stupidly.

“Yeah, I already knew that. Good to

know you.”

“Cooper is a surf coach,” Dickson

said, in a voice that made me feel like a

second grader.

Cocking an eyebrow in an effort to

look indifferent, I asked, “A surf coach?” I

locked my hands between my knees

hoping that the pressure would erase the

memory of Cooper’s touch from my skin.

It didn’t, and I felt his eyes burning into

the side of my face.

It’s only because I’ve been in rehab
,

I reasoned with myself.
That’s the reason

why I felt that pull towards him.

“He’s a damn good surf coach,”

Dickson answered.

“One of the best,” my agent piped in.

I shifted a strand of my dark hair

behind my ear, pausing to rub my fingers

back and forth across my earlobe. “And

I’m guessing him being here has something

to do with a part?”

Dickson grinned. “You always were

one to cut to the chase, but yes. We’re in

pre-production and set to begin filming at

the end of the month in Hawaii.”

“So it’s a surfing movie?” I asked.

“We prefer calling it a”—Dickson

raised his fingers into quotation marks

—“beach drama. And it’s actually a

reboot of a popular late eighties movie.”

Cooper made a little noise next to him, but

Dickson pretended not to hear him.

“Which one?” I asked.

“
Tidal
. It was the movie that launched

Hilary Norton’s career. I was a

production manager on the original.”

I’d seen a bunch of Hilary Norton’s

movies, but not that particular one, though

I’d never tell Dickson that. “And I’d be

what? The supporting actress who surfs?”

I questioned as I rubbed the back of my

neck. Kevin made an awkward grunting

noise beside me trying to get me to shut

the hell up. I gave him a look that said

“I’ll cut you”. Dickson missed the

exchange, but Surfer Boy caught it,

quirking his eyebrows and lips at the same

time.

“Lead, my dear,” Dickson said. His

answer knocked the breath out of my

lungs. I didn’t get the opportunity to

immediately reply because our server

arrived to take our order. Numbly, I asked

for a chopped salad and water, and ran my

fingertips along the outline of my fork as

everyone else ordered. The only person I

found myself listening to was Cooper,

who wanted a Coke and a burger.

My stomach growled, and suddenly, I

wished I’d asked for the same. Rehab

food had sucked.

“And we would start filming at the end

of this month?” I asked, mentally doing the

math in my head. I was looking at twelve,

maybe thirteen days. That would give me

time to see my friends before I was

needed in Hawaii. If I was lucky, Kevin

would negotiate enough money in advance

for me to spend those days happy.

“Well, yes, but you’d be going to

Hawaii tomorrow evening,” Dickson said.

My mouth dropped open. I looked

from him to my agent, from Kevin to the

surfer. “I have . . .
other
obligations,” I muttered, placing an emphasis on the last

couple words. Obligations meaning the

community service I was supposed to start

immediately, now that I was out of

Serenity Hills. Fifty hours, and it would

take me at least four or five days working

at breakneck speed.

Kevin shook his head. “Already taken

care of. Your parents had your attorney

file a motion to transfer your community

service to Honolulu.”

Angrily, I curled my fingers around the

napkin in my lap. Clay, my attorney, had

had enough time to file motions but not

answer my letters about a lawsuit I’d filed

against a business nearly three years ago.

And Mom and Dad weren’t too busy to

attend meetings on my behalf, but they’d

sent my agent to pick me up this morning.

Unbelievable.

“Looks like you have it all figured

out,” I said.

Cooper snorted. “Right down to you

scrubbing graffiti off park benches when

you’re not with me,” he said under his

breath. For some reason, the taunt sounded

so much harsher coming from him, in his

soft-spoken accent. I flipped my eyes

across the table at him, doing my best to

maintain my clenched smile. His face was

red from holding back laughter.

And this was who was going to train

me for my role? He could barely get

through lunch without laughing at me.

“Back. Off,” I snapped. Then, to

Dickson, I demanded. “Is he going to do

this while he’s training me?”

“Of course not, he’s only being

facetious,” Dickson said consolingly.

Then his voice turned serious. “You’re

really the only one for the part.”

His words were what every actress

wanted to hear, even reluctant ones who

didn’t want to return to work. James

Dickson was a fair man; making
Sleepless

with him had been a breeze. And most

importantly, I was broke. My agent was

right, I needed this part.

“You two will iron out the details?” I

asked. The question was aimed towards

Dickson and Kevin, but for some reason,

my eyes were locked on Surfer Boy. I

didn’t like the way he was smirking at me.

It was unsettling and intense and it made

me feel exposed.

And this will be my coach.

“Already working on it,” Dickson

assured me.

Dragging my gaze from Cooper, I

faced my new producer. I tried to think of

everything I would gain from doing this

job, and not the potential asshole I’d have

to work alongside every day while doing

it.

Cooper was still there, though, a

bronze and startling blue haze in my

peripherals.

“I’ll do it,” I said, my voice shaky.

Then, Dickson and I clasped hands.

But later that afternoon, once lunch

was over and Kevin dropped me off at the

nicest hotel I could afford for the evening,

I searched for Dickson’s newest movie. It

took two clicks to discover that a starlet—

of the mouse ear variety—had dropped

out of the lead role recently, due to a

scheduling conflict. Staring at the screen

until her picture and the adjacent photo of

Dickson became a blur, I dialed Jessica,

one of my best friends. I caught her

voicemail.

“Jess, it’s me. I’m out, so call me

back,” I said. Then I tried contacting

everyone else I knew, with no luck,

including my parents. Their shared

voicemail picked up and my mother’s

newscaster-like voice answered.

“This is Tiffany and Jason Avery.

We’re vacationing in Paris, but we’ll get

back to you . . .”

Frustrated, I punched the end call

button and tossed the phone on top of the

nightstand next to the hotel bed. Mom and

Dad would be on vacation. I flipped on

the TV and settled for reruns of a reality

show on MTV, waiting for one of my

friends to call me back.

But when I drifted off to sleep a few

minutes after midnight, curled into a tight

coil of flesh and bone and thinking of blue

eyes and an endless blue sea, my phone

hadn’t so much as vibrated once.

“It’s better this way,” I said, as I

hugged myself. If Jessica had called me

back, I would have gone out—I would

have gotten high. I couldn’t let myself do

that anymore. I needed a different escape.

But saying those words, and thinking

those thoughts, did nothing to stop the tight

pain in my chest.

I had dreams—no, nightmares—about

soft, blue blankets.

And when I woke up several times

throughout the night, all I found myself

wanting was more blue—Roxies, my once

favorite escape of all—to numb all of that

away. I cried myself back to sleep, hating

my weaknesses.

Chapter Two

A pounding outside my hotel room

door jarred me awake, unraveling me

from my fitful sleep. For a moment, I

remained still, squinting as the sunlight

poured across the bed. There hadn’t been

a window in my room at Serenity Hills,

which I’d shared with a steady influx of

other girls—the last being a rocker’s kid

who was only there for eight weeks. For

six months I’d missed waking up to the

light. It burned the edges away from the

darkness, at least for a little while.

The door shook again and this time a

muffled voice on the other side called out

my name. Groaning, I rolled over,

stumbled out of bed, and crept across the

paisley print carpet. After I wiggled my

arms and legs to shake out the stiffness, I

leaned forward to glance out the

peephole.

Kevin stood in the hallway, with his

hands in his pocket, biting his lip

impatiently. I knew better than anyone that

my agent spent more time dealing with me

than most of his other clients, but it still

made my throat go dry whenever he

dropped a silent reminder that I was
that

client. The nuisance who didn’t want to

cooperate, despite everything he’d done

for me.

Of course, not all of Kevin’s

suggestions and efforts had had the effect

he wanted them to.

Sucking in a long breath to force the

painful burn in my chest down to the pit of

my stomach, I flung the door open. Kevin

walked right past me, carrying a folder

under his arm and rolling a suitcase