Читать книгу Why Resist a Rebel? - Leah Ashton, Leah Ashton - Страница 10

THREE

A loud bang jolted Dev out of his dream.

He blinked, his eyes attempting to adjust to the darkness.

What time is it?

He lay on his back in the centre of his bed. Naked but for his boxer shorts, the sheets and quilt long ago kicked off and onto the floor.

He remembered feeling restless. As if he needed to get up and go for a run. Or for a drive. Or just out. Somewhere. Away.

Where?

It wasn’t the first morning he’d asked that question.

Another bang. Even louder than before. Or maybe just now he was more awake?

The thick cloak of sleep was slowly lifting, and his eyes were adjusting.

It wasn’t completely dark in here. Light was managing to push through the heavy curtains that he’d checked and double checked were fully closed the night before.

He shivered, and only then did he register it was cold. He had a vague recollection of turning off the heater on the wall. Why? The nights were still cool.

Obviously it had made sense at the time.

Another bang.

The door. Someone was knocking on the door.

What time is it?

He rolled onto his side, reaching across the bed, knocking aside a small cardboard box and a blister pack so he could see the glowing green numbers of the clock on the bedside table. There were none. He didn’t remember turning it off, but it didn’t surprise him that he had.

He had set that alarm last night, though. And the alarm on his phone. He had an early call today. He’d been going to get up early to read through today’s rehearsal scenes.

Bang, bang, bang.

Dev swung his legs over the side of the bed in slow motion, then shoved himself to his feet. Three sluggish steps later, he discovered his mobile phone when he kicked it in the gloom, and it clattered against his closed bedroom door.

By feel he found the light switch on the wall, then rubbed his eyes against the sudden brightness.

His phone located, he picked it up to check the time. He pressed the button to illuminate the screen, but it took a while for his eyes to focus.

How long ago had he taken the sleepers?

He still felt drugged, still shrouded in the sleep that the tablets had finally delivered.

Seven thirty-two a.m. Why hadn’t his alarm gone off?

Bang, bang, BANG, BANG, BANG!

‘Mr Cooper? Are you awake?’

Graeme. Of course.

He twisted the old brass doorknob to his room, then padded up the wide hallway. Morning light streamed through the stained-glass panels of the front door around the over-inflated shape that was Dev’s warden.

He took his time, his gaze trained on his phone as he checked that his alarm had been set. It had. So it had gone off.

Presumably he’d then thrown it across the room, given where he’d found it.

It shouldn’t surprise him, but that wasn’t what he’d meant to do today. Last night he’d felt...different. Today was supposed to be different. Different from the past ninety-seven days.

How specific.

He smiled a humourless smile. Who knew his subconscious kept such meticulous records?

The thing was, today wasn’t the first day that was supposed to be different. But then, they never were.

Graeme was still hammering away at the door, but Dev didn’t bother to call out, to reassure him that his charge was in fact awake and not passed out in an alcoholic stupor or worse—whatever it was that Veronica was so sure that Dev was doing.

In some ways Dev wished he could apply a label to himself. Alcoholic. Drug addict.

But he was neither of those things.

What about his sleepers?

He dismissed the idea instantly. No. They were prescribed, and temporary.

Definitely temporary.

Hollywood wasn’t the shiny happy place people imagined. It was full of egos fuelled by intense insecurity. Stars that shone while simultaneously harbouring the intense fear that their light could be extinguished at any moment: at the mercy of their next role, of public opinion, of the whims of studio executives...always others.

So little control. It was no surprise that so many teetered over the edge. Fell into...something. It was just the label that changed.

But Dev had no label.

He just had...nothing.

He opened the door while Graeme was mid-knock. The other man started, then took a step back, clearing his throat.

‘We need to leave in five minutes, Mr Cooper.’

Dev scratched his belly and nodded. He left the door open as he turned and headed for the bathroom. Four minutes later he was showered and had dragged on a T-shirt, hoodie and jeans. He pulled the front door shut and locked it as Graeme hovered nearby—impatiently.

When he was growing up, his mum had done the same thing—although not as silently. She’d tap her foot as she waited for her youngest and most disorganised son. The other two boys generally already in the family Mercedes, all perfect and consistently smug. Hurry up, Dev! You’re making us late!

And just because he’d been that kind of kid, he’d taken his own sweet time.

This was why he didn’t like having drivers. Why he insisted on driving himself to and from set for every single one of his many movies. He was a grown adult with a driver’s licence—why the hell did he need a chauffeur? He was far from a child any more; he didn’t need to be directed and herded and hurried. He was a professional—always on time. Always reliable.

Until now.

Today was not the first time he’d slept through his alarm. Or, of more concern: he’d heard it, switched it off, and deliberately rolled over and gone back to sleep. More than once the action of even setting his alarm had felt impossible. Weirdly overwhelming.

Other nights sleep had never come. Where his thoughts had echoed so loudly in his skull that even drugs had no impact. And those days he’d watched time tick by, watched his call time slip by, and switched his phone to silent as his agent, or the producer, or even the director would call, and call and call...

That had got him fired from his last film. The contract was pulled on his next after whispers had begun to spread.

So here he was.

And although he hadn’t meant to—because of course he never meant to—it was happening again.

Without Graeme, he’d still be in bed, time passing. He hated that.

He sat in the back of the black four-wheel drive, staring unseeing out of the darkly tinted windows. Beside him was an insulated bag that Graeme said contained his breakfast, but he wasn’t hungry.

You’re not welcome here.

Closer to Unit Base, the bitumen road ended, and the car bounced amongst potholes on the wide gravel track. The irregular movements did nothing to jolt that memory. How long ago had it been? Ten years? No, longer. Fourteen. He’d been nineteen, home late—really late—after a night out with his mates.

He hadn’t been drunk, but alcohol had still buzzed through his bloodstream.

‘Where the hell have you been?’

His father stood at the very top of the staircase that rose majestically from the lobby of the Coopers’ sprawling Sydney upper-north-shore residence. His mum had left a lamp on for him, and the soft light threw shadows onto his dad’s pyjamas.

‘Out,’ he said. Grunted, really.

‘You have an exam tomorrow.’

Dev shrugged. He’d had no intention of turning up. He dumped his keys on a sideboard, and began to head past the stairs to the hallway that led to his bedroom, tossing his reply over his shoulder. ‘I’m not going to be an accountant, Dad.’

Patrick Cooper’s slippered feet were still heavy as they thumped down each carpeted step. Dev didn’t pause. He’d heard it all before.

He’d gone to uni to please his mum, only. But three semesters in, and he’d had it. He knew where his life was leading, and it didn’t involve a calculator and a navy-blue suit.

His father picked up his pace behind him, but Dev remained deliberately slow. Unworried. Casual.

He was unsurprised to feel the weight of his father’s hand on his shoulder. But when Dev kept walking, the way Patrick wrenched at his shoulder, spinning him around...yes, that shocked him.

His arm came up, his fingers forming into a fist. It was automatic, the result of the crowd he’d been hanging with, the occasional push and shove at a pub. He wouldn’t have hit his dad—he knew that. Knew that.

But his dad thought he would. He could see it in his eyes, that belief of what Dev was capable of. Or rather, the lack of belief.

Dev saw the fist coming. Maybe he didn’t have enough time to move, maybe he did—either way he stood stock still.

His father’s knuckles connected with his jaw with enough force to twist his body and push him back into the wall. And for it to hurt. A lot. He tasted blood, felt it coating his teeth.

But he remained standing, half expecting more.

But that wasn’t going to happen. Instead, his dad fell to his knees, holding his fist in his other hand.

For long moments, it was perfectly silent. It was as if neither of them could breathe.

Then a clatter on the stairs heralded his mum’s arrival. She gasped as she came into view, then ran to Patrick, kneeling beside him and wrapping her arm around his shoulder.

She looked up at Dev, her gaze beseeching. ‘What happened here?’

‘I’m quitting uni, Mum,’ he said. ‘I’m an actor.’ His whole face ached as he spoke, but the words were strong and clear.

‘That’s a dream, not a career.’ His dad didn’t say the words, he spat them out.

‘It’s what I want.’ What he needed to do.

‘I won’t support you, Devlin. I won’t stand by and watch you fail—’

‘I know that,’ he interrupted. How well he knew that.

That his family wouldn’t support him. That not one of them believed he’d succeed.

‘Good,’ his dad said. ‘Then leave. You’re not welcome here.’

It didn’t surprise him. It had been coming for so long. His mum, the only reason he’d stayed, looked stricken.

He nodded. Then walked back up the hall the way he’d come.

He didn’t say a word. No dramatic farewell. No parting words.

But he knew he’d never be back.

Graeme slowed to a stop at a paddock gate before a security guard waved them through. A dirt track wound its way over the smallest of hills, and then they were amongst the trailers that sprawled across Unit Base. The set was vast—yesterday the producer had told him it was the corner of a working sheep and canola farm. It spread across the almost perfectly flat countryside, overlooked by an irregular ridge of mountains. Yesterday, Dev’s gaze had explored a landscape dotted with eucalyptus, rectangular fields of lurid yellow canola and paddocks desperately trying to hold onto winter hints of green. Today it was just a blur.

But something caught his eye as Graeme parked beside his trailer. Through the car window he followed that splash of colour with his eyes.

A woman in a bright blue dress, more like an oversized jumper, really, was barrelling rapidly along the path towards him. She was unmistakeable, her mop of choppy blonde hair shining like pale gold in the sun.

Ruby Bell.

She’d slipped his mind as soon as his nightly battle for sleep had begun, but now she’d sprung right back to the front, in full Technicolor.

He knew what she was: a distraction. A temporary focus.

But one he needed.

He was here. And thanks to Graeme—via Veronica—he’d be here on set each day, right on time. But right now he couldn’t make himself care about the film, about his role.

Oh, he’d perform, right on cue, and to the best of his ability—as much as he was capable of, anyway.

But he wouldn’t care. Couldn’t care. Any more.

How was that for irony?

With his death, his father had—finally—got his way.

He was on time—just.

Ruby watched as he got out of the car, all loose-limbed and casual.

In contrast, she felt as stiff as a board. She kept making herself take deep, supposedly calming breaths as she gripped the papers in her hand, and reminding herself that she could do this—that this was her job.

It was just incredibly unfortunate it was her job. She shouldn’t have been surprised, really, when Paul had taken her aside this morning and made her task clear: keep Dev on time and on schedule.

All the Dev-related rumours—a new one this morning hinting at a lot more than tardiness—should’ve made Paul’s request a no-brainer.

Yet, she’d actually gasped when Paul had told her, and then had to make up some unfortunate lie about swallowing a fly, accompanied with much poorly acted faux coughing.

Once again Dev had managed to short-circuit her brain.

Because the task of babysitting talent was a perfectly typical request for the production co-ordinator, who, amongst other things, was responsible for organising actors’ lives while on location.

Actors were notoriously unreliable. Putting together the call sheet was one thing—having anyone actually stick to it was something else entirely.

As she watched Dev watch her, a hip propped against his car, it was suddenly clear that getting him to do anything—at all—that she wanted could prove difficult.

This was not the man who’d smiled at her in the Lucyville pub last night, or who’d teased her on the street. Neither was he the man with the smug expression and the coffee stains on his shirt.

This man was completely unreadable.

‘Good morning!’ she managed, quite well, she thought.

He nodded sharply.

She thrust the portion of the script he’d be rehearsing today in his direction. ‘Here are today’s sides,’ she said.

He took them from her with barely a glance. It was as if he was waiting for something—to figure something out.

‘And?’ he asked.

‘I’ll be taking you to be fitted by Costume, first,’ she said. ‘Then Hair and Make-up would like to see you prior to your rehearsal.’

‘And you’ll be escorting me?’

Ruby swallowed. ‘Yes. I’ll be looking after you today.’

It was immediately obvious that was the wrong thing to say. Something flickered in his gaze.

‘I have my call sheet. I know where I need to be. I don’t require hand-holding.’

‘Paul asked that I...’

His glare told her that was another mistake, so she let the words drift off.

Then tried again. ‘Mr Cooper, I’m here to help you.’

Somehow, those words changed everything, as if she’d flicked a switch. From defensive, and shuttered, his expression was suddenly...considering?

But Ruby didn’t think for a moment that he’d simply accepted she was just doing her job. This was different—more calculating.

‘Here to help,’ he said to himself, as if he was turning the words over in his head.

Then he smiled, a blinding, movie-star smile.

And Ruby had absolutely no idea what had just happened.

It was dumb—really dumb—that he was surprised.

Heck—if he were the producer on this film, he’d have done the same thing.

It didn’t mean he had to be happy about it.

He’d never been this kind of actor before; he’d never needed to be led around on some imaginary leash. Lord—he’d thought Graeme was bad enough.

And, of course, it had to be Ruby in charge of him.

It was a total waste of her time, of course. On set, he was fine, and not the fine he told himself he was whenever he was convincing himself to fall asleep.

He followed just slightly behind her. She was talking, quite rapidly, but he really wasn’t paying much attention.

She was nervous, for sure. He did like that.

And he did like how the tables had turned. Last night she’d called the shots. Today—it was him.

Juvenile? Yes.

Fun? He thought so.

So Paul thought he needed looking after? No problem.

He’d be that actor, then. The ridiculous type who wanted everything in their trailer periwinkle blue, or who would only drink a particular brand of mineral water—not available locally, of course.

He’d prove Paul right—and irritate the self-important producer in the process.

A small win.

And it would push Ruby’s buttons too—trigger that flare of response he’d already witnessed a handful of times, and was eager to experience again.

Dev smiled, just as Ruby stopped before a hulking white trailer and turned to face him.

Her forehead wrinkled as she studied him, as if she knew something was up.

He just smiled even more broadly.

Yes, this was an excellent idea.

Completely focused on the email she was reading—Arizona’s agent, confirming that his client was available to attend an opening in Sydney the following week—Ruby picked up her loudly ringing phone from her overflowing desk without glancing at the screen.

‘Ruby Bell.’

‘Ruby.’ A pause. ‘Good afternoon.’

There was no point pretending she didn’t recognise that voice. Her disloyal body practically shivered in recognition.

‘How can I help, Mr Cooper?’ she asked with determined brightness, her eyes not wavering from her laptop screen, although the email’s words and sentences had somehow become an indecipherable alphabet jumble.

Even so, she tapped randomly on her keyboard. For her benefit, mostly, a reminder that she was a busy film professional who received phone calls from famous actors All The Time. She was working. This was her job.

No need for her mouth to go dry or for her cheeks to warm.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I have a problem.’

‘Yes?’ she prompted, with some trepidation.

He’d been scrupulously polite this morning. Allowed her to take him from appointment to appointment. He’d chatted inanely about the weather, and charmed every person she introduced him to.

But...

Occasionally he’d slant a glance in her direction that meant...she had absolutely no idea.

It wasn’t about last night any more. She was sure. No question he’d long lost interest in perfectly average Ruby Bell by now.

Definitely.

‘I can’t figure out how to use the wireless Internet in my cottage.’

Oh. Her skin went hotter. Of course his phone call had nothing to do with her. Of course it didn’t.

Hadn’t she told him—what, three hours ago?—to call her any time?

Ruby took a deep breath. She really needed to pull herself together.

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Mr Cooper,’ she replied. ‘I’ll get that sorted for you straight away.’

‘Appreciate it,’ he said, and then the phone went silent.

Carefully, she placed her phone back onto her desk, darting her gaze about the room. She half expected everyone to be staring at her, to know exactly how flustered she was, despite all her efforts to not be. To somehow know that Dev had all but propositioned her outside the salubrious Lucyville Motel, even though she’d told her intrigued friends she hadn’t seen Dev after she’d left the pub last night.

To know that chaperoning Dev around set this morning was stupidly difficult, despite her constant mental reminders that it was so not a big deal, and that she was a professional and they were both adults who could work together professionally despite the running-into-him thing, or the not-recognising-him thing, or saying-no-to-the-most-eligible-bachelor-in-the-world thing.

But no. Rohan worked quietly at his desk. Cath stood in front of the large whiteboard calendar, studying it with fierce concentration and a marker in her hand. Selena wasn’t even in the room—she was out, busily signing in extras.

Ruby bit back a sigh. She was being ridiculous.

So she tilted her head left to right, rolled her shoulders a few times, wriggled her toes—and told herself she was cool, and calm and collected. She was!

And then she got back to work.

Less than an hour later, Dev stepped out onto the deck at the back of his cottage, sliding shut the glass door firmly behind him. Inside, one of the more junior members of the production office was busily fixing his ‘broken’ Internet.

He pressed his phone to his ear.

‘Ruby Bell,’ she said when she answered, sounding as brisk and polite as she had earlier.

‘Ms Bell,’ he said, ever so politely, ‘thank you. I now have Internet.’

Well, he would once the guy inside realised the router had been unplugged.

‘Oh, good,’ she said. There was a beat or two of silence, and then she added, ‘Can I help you with anything else?’

Dev’s lips curled upwards.

‘Yes, actually. I need a new hire car.’

‘Is something wrong with your current car?’ she asked.

No. Assuming you disregarded the fact that he had Graeme-the-warden driving him everywhere. Dev’s suggestion he drive himself to set from now on was not warmly received. If Dev had access to the keys he never would’ve asked at all.

That would’ve made Veronica happy. About as happy as she’d been in her email this morning, and her many missed calls on his phone.

Turned out Graeme had passed on his trip to the pub.

Security—my arse.

‘My current car is too...’ he paused, as if in deep contemplation ‘...feminine.’

‘Pardon me?’

‘Too feminine,’ he repeated.

The line remained silent. Was Ruby smiling? Frowning?

‘I see,’ she said, after a while. ‘I’m sorry you find your black four-wheel drive so unsuitable. Can you explain to me what it is that you dislike about the car?’

There was nothing overtly discourteous in her tone—quite the opposite, in fact. Yet Dev heard the subtlest of subtle bites. He liked it.

‘It’s the upholstery,’ he said. ‘It has pink thread in it.’

‘Ah,’ she said, as if this were actually a valid complaint. ‘Fair enough. Don’t worry, I’ll have a new car to you by tonight.’

‘At the latest,’ he said, just like one of the many delusionally self-important actors he knew who made these types of requests.

‘Not a problem, Mr Cooper.’

‘Appreciated, Ms Bell.’

Then he hung up with a smile on his face.

Ruby sat alone in her office, the Top 40 show on the radio her only company. It was late—really late, and she’d sent everyone else home fifteen minutes earlier.

But she had to get everything done—well, an hour ago, really—but Dev had really screwed up her day.

Losing Rohan for an hour to fix Dev’s wireless had meant she’d had to run the call sheet alone; and unfortunately the runner she’d assigned to sort out the new hire car was young, and new, and seemed to ask Ruby a question every five minutes. Then, of course, there’d been Dev’s email, asking for directions to every amenity in Lucyville. After she’d gritted her teeth and carefully replied to it—and therefore losing another thirty minutes—he’d blithely replied with one word: Thanks.

Thanks!

She’d silently screamed.

She’d had no idea Dev was like this—normally talent of the high-maintenance variety came with clear advance warning via the industry grapevine. Put two people who worked in film together, and guaranteed that stuff like ‘Dev-Cooper-thought-his-car-was-too-girly’ got talked about.

But—until the last twenty-four hours—she’d never heard a negative word about Devlin Cooper.

Oohing and ahhing about how he was just as gorgeous in real life—which she now knew to be true—yes, she’d heard that. But unreasonable, prima-donna carryings-on? Not a whisper.

Her phone rang, vibrating against the pile of sides—the scenes being filmed the next day—it rested upon.

Of course it was Dev, and reluctantly Ruby swiped her finger across the screen to answer the call.

‘Mr Cooper,’ Ruby said, setting the phone to loudspeaker so she could continue to work on the latest updates to a transport schedule. She was not going to let Dev distract her. ‘How can I help you?’

‘I was wondering,’ he said, not sounding at all apologetic for calling so late, ‘if you could recommend anywhere good to eat in Sydney.’