Homewrecker Read online

  “Look, Cade,” Sydney cuts in, standing to gather her laptop and put it back in her leather bag. “It’s a job. You’re not always going to like your co-stars. Don’t become that actor no one wants to work with because he’s being a diva.”

  I stand—far quicker than I should—and grimace slightly at the residual pain. “I’m not a diva.”

  “Then I will choose the next best candidate.” Sydney doesn’t even look at me, instead turning to Tim. “You need to have better communication with your clients, Tim. Cade’s probably been given the go-ahead for light work for the last week, minimum. He’s not even wearing a brace anymore. That means he can run lines. Start rehearsal.” Then, she turns to me. “If you want to make it in this field, you need to act like it. It’s one movie. But it’s one movie that could easily break your career if you keep on this path. If you’d rather be on the back of a dirt bike, hey, I’m not going to tell you not to. I live with athletes. But you need to figure out what you want to do.”

  Tim stands and walks Sydney to the door. “I’m sorry we wasted your time.”

  Sydney just smiles at him and shakes her head. “No time wasted. My house is currently a zoo, and my husband had the audacity to invite people over. I was only too happy to say I was needed on a plane.” She leans around Tim and gives me a pointed look. “I expect to see you in two weeks.”

  Chapter Two

  Cade

  My phone pings with a notification, and I glance up from my sandwich prep. Tim has surprisingly been off my back, although he did leave a message the day before stating that I was due in Vancouver for the first read-through in one week, with filming to begin shortly after.

  Joy.

  There hasn’t been word on who they casted for the part of Jess, my love interest, but at this point, I figure they’re keeping that quiet so that I won’t back out. I just know that it isn’t Tatum.

  I’d done a basic search on the girl and, based on her audition reel, wasn’t at all surprised at the number of hits her named yielded. She may not have been a person I recognized, but the woman was an actress. She knew what she was doing.

  All the search hits said the same thing: she was MIA.

  There were paparazzi images of her with her last co-star, Grant Maxwell, as well as some not-so-nice headlines—eluding to her having tried to ruin Grant’s marriage—but those headlines were a dime a dozen; it was part of the business. Surely, these ten-words-or-less statements weren’t the reason she’d gone in hiding.

  Her IMDB—Internet Movie Data Base—account showed she’d been in the acting business since she was twelve; she’d have to have a thick skin, after six, seven years on the small and big screens.

  So, basically, I was giving up on casting finding her and getting her to sign on to the movie. Without anything solid to work from, and with just the knowledge her agent was not sending Tatum messages…

  I had to give up the idea of her.

  But then the question was, who? Who on that list of nine, was going to show up in Vancouver?

  Sure, I’d prefer to work opposite a woman that I can at least pretend to like. It’s not just the movie that I’ll have to been seen with her—there are the PR tours, and the carpet, and sightings around L.A. that would all have to be accomplished. And if I was walking next to a woman I didn’t like…

  I mean, I’m an actor.

  I can act.

  The Oscar nods can attest to that.

  But you can’t fake chemistry.

  However…

  It wasn’t like I have anything to fall back on if this production were to be cancelled.

  No movies in the works.

  I’m not allowed on my dirt bike yet.

  So, nothing.

  I have to get back to work. Sitting in this big, high-rise condo isn’t doing anything for me.

  Resigned by my thoughts, I cap the mayo and lick the butter knife, walking toward the counter my phone rests on. Swiping against the screen, I wake up the phone and punch in my keylock to see what caused the device to ping.

  An Instagram notification.

  Picking my phone up, I walk to the sink to deposit the used knife and open the notification.

  It’s a tag; a picture of Charleigh and me, back in elementary school.

  #tbt to that time this kid started kindergarten. Back when it wasn’t called 5k. You’re old @mx_caj

  I can’t help but smile at the image. We were really young; five and six. Where Charleigh has always had the same shade of dirty blonde hair, my now brown hair was once super light—nearly white. In the still shot, Charleigh and I are standing in front of the White’s house and hugging one another, big smiles on our faces. Because we went to a private school, we both wore similar uniforms—navy blue slacks with button-down shirts; mine that day was light blue and hers was white.

  The picture feels like ages ago.

  One never truly feels like they’re getting old until a picture like this pops up and makes you realize—it’s been over fifteen years.

  That’s a long time.

  Curious what other pictures Charleigh has on her public profile, I back out to the grid view and slowly scroll through the images, my sandwich long forgotten. For as not-girly as Charleigh can be, she is a social media genius. Where my Instagram is a hodge-podge of colors and styles, hers is done in a clear pattern:

  Black and white. Bright colors. Black and white. Quote on a white background.

  Black and white. Bright colors. Black and white. Quote on a white background.

  Very few pictures are selfies or solo shots of Charleigh; most are her with friends, or the family lab, Black. As I scroll, I come across a couple images from Coachella a few months ago—and it’s there that I stop; tap a picture so it opens in full-screen.

  And stare at the black and white picture of a pretty blonde with sad eyes.

  Oh, her face is morphed in laughter and she has an oversized floppy hat atop her head, her hair otherwise down in big curls.

  But her eyes betray her laughter.

  I’m also ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure this girl is Tatum O’Malley.

  I look at the caption.

  Having a blast with this cutie, popping her #Coachella cherry. LYH @tatum0502

  Tatum.

  Yes.

  I click the girl’s handle but groan when I’m taken to an ‘unavailable’ page.

  I click back to Charleigh’s page and try to find other pictures of Tatum; try to see if I can figure out her current handle.

  But the only one Charleigh uses on her account, is the no longer live tatum0502.

  I try to search for a verified Tatum O’Malley user, but come up empty. The girl has plenty of tags and poser profiles, though.

  Maybe on Charleigh’s personal profile, the one only family and friends have access to…

  I type her private name in even though I’m convinced I’ll get nowhere. Charleigh social medias in spurts, and because she’s been fairly active on her public profile, I’m doubtful I’ll find anything on her personal account.

  This account is Charleigh’s hodge-podge. This one, looks more like mine.

  The very first post is a quote in black, over a black and white image. It’s a quote about pain and using it to become better, and it’s written by the Instagram sensation, Atticus. I frown as I read it, because the words are more depressing than I know Charleigh to be. I go into feed view and scroll past the image to see what she wrote. Literally nothing, other than the repost tag.

  Not sure what to make of the post, I keep scrolling.

  The next image is clearly up at the White’s house in Tahoe and is a picture of two girls sitting at the end of the dock, their backs to the camera while the girl on the left has her arm wrapped around the shoulders of the other girl. I can make out the hugger to be Charleigh but am curious as to whom Charleigh hung out with on her mini vacation.

  Unfortunately, this image doesn’t have any sort of capt
ion.

  Dammit, Charleigh…

  Well, I can do one of two things.

  Continue to try and stalk Tatum down, on the downlow, or I can man up and ask Charleigh if she knows where Tatum is, and how I can talk to her.

  Yeah, I want Tatum to be my opposite in the movie, and Sydney stated that she had been their next choice, so surely, if I can get ahold of her…that’d be a good thing, right?

  My stomach growls, reminding me of my sandwich. I start to pull up Charleigh’s contact card as I retrieve my lunch, bringing the phone to my ear as it rings. I’m taking a bite just as Charleigh answers.

  “What’s the good word, Cade?”

  I chew quickly and swallow hard before just plunging. “How well do you know Tatum O’Malley?”

  She’s slow to answer, but her answer is definitive, even if short. “Well.”

  Her tone tells me enough.

  She’s hiding something.

  “So, you know where she is.”

  “What’s this about?” It’s not like Charleigh to dodge questions, and my interest is piqued further.

  “I want her for the movie, but casting says they can’t get in touch with her, nor is her agent taking messages. You know her, well even you said, so I was wondering if you knew where she was.”

  “Yes,” she says firmly. “I do know. But she’s not doing any films. Not now.” Charleigh sounds like a protective mama bear.

  “Why not?” I push my plate and sandwich away, turning and hopping up to sit on the counter. “I saw her audition, Char. She’d be great. I want her.”

  “She’s not signing on to projects right now, Cade.” My friend sounds annoyed with me.

  “What are you hiding? She’s the girl in your lake house picture, isn’t she? She’s hiding. Why?” A plan is starting to form in my head. I’ll go to the house. I can talk to her in person. I’ll get her to do the film. I can be persuasive if I really want it bad enough.

  And right now?

  I want this bad enough.

  “Cade…” I can picture Charleigh pacing in her annoyance. “Leave her alone.”

  “So, she is at the house.”

  “Ugh! Yes! Yes, she’s at the house. Leave her alone, Cade!”

  When I don’t say anything—mostly because I’m working on my plans to do just the opposite of what Charleigh is suggesting—she speaks up again. “Why does it have to be her?”

  “Because she’s great.”

  “So are hundreds of others.”

  I can’t help but chuckle. “You were the one who told me to make demands. I want her. I want her to play the part.”

  “She’s out of commission.”

  “Why?”

  “Cade, so help me God, if you go up to the house…”

  “Love you, Char.”

  “Cade!” But I hang up, my plan more than ready.

  I glance to the clock and see it’s only one in the afternoon. If I leave now, I can get to the house before eight-thirty. The sun won’t be completely set yet, so it would be absolutely acceptable to show up that late.

  Besides, she’s a Hollywood actress.

  Eight is still early.

  Guess I’m heading on a road trip.

  Chapter Three

  Dylan

  It’s quiet out here…

  Without Charleigh’s laughter.

  Without her unique ability to pull me out of my despair.

  I’m sitting on one of the White’s fancy patios behind the house. Can’t really call it a patio, I don’t think. It’s more like an extension of the house.

  The ground is covered in flat natural stone, stone that meets the back of the house but otherwise, isn’t a “patio” by normal standards.

  The edge is lined with boulders and goes right to a small bluff-type cliff. There is more natural stone that lines stairs, stairs that would bring a person either up toward the main level of the house, or down toward the pier and lake.

  I’m lounging in one of the Adirondack chairs with my feet propped up along the edge of a giant fire pit—a fire pit made out of, you guessed it, more stone.

  The fire is starting to die down, which is fine.

  I should head in soon.

  But it’s so pretty out here, when the sky is still a rich navy blue and is making its way toward black.

  The moon is full tonight and is currently hanging low and large—looming over the lake, right over the beauty that is the pine tree skyline.

  My eyes are fixed to its creamy reflection over the smooth, inky-black water, and my mind is racing.

  Hell, it hasn’t stopped racing, not once, in the last five months.

  I can only hide for so long.

  My agent is going to get pissed with me after a while.

  My parents don’t understand why I avoided going home for my birthday.

  The fucking world is pissed at me for being a woman set out to ruin one of Hollywood’s best marriages.

  The marriage everyone’s been rooting for since Grant Maxwell hit the acting scene, five years ago.

  If this is how Tatum wants to make her transition from television to big time films, she’s doing it wrong.

  No one will respect her.

  She should have stuck with her boring television dramas. No one has time for that shit to be real life.

  There’s no way Grant would cheat on Aja. They’re middle school sweethearts! So floving cute! Tatum is such a bitch.

  I try to swallow past the large lump in my throat, but it doesn’t budge.

  The anxiety is getting to be too much.

  I close my eyes, even though blocking out the beautiful view does nothing for the words echoing in my head.

  The words that ping pong back and forth.

  I’d had a bad anxiety attack last week.

  And if it weren’t for my best friend, I don’t think I’d be sitting here right now.

  The overbearing need to end it all…

  I attempt to swallow again, and this time I’m successful. With a slow, deep breath, I open my eyes to the dark again and take the time to watch the stars blinking to life in the sky above me.

  Charleigh had to leave, but she calls me five times a day—seven in the morning, ten in the morning, noon, three in the afternoon, and six in the evening. She makes me talk about my day and my feelings. Most people don’t know this about her, but she’s studying to be a therapist.

  I’m okay being her test subject.

  There’s no one else in the world I can talk to anyway, and she’s been with me since this entire thing unfolded.

  Part of me feared that she felt guilty.

  She was the one who pushed me to go to the party.

  Told me it would be good for me. Networking, of sorts. That it was what you did after wrapping a film that was slated to be one of the highest grossing ones of the year.

  I don’t think she realized the extent of this particular party, not when she urged me to go.

  However, I also don’t think Charleigh felt guilted into letting me stay here for as long as I’ve been. She knew I needed a place to hide, and she had just the place. No one bothered me out here. Hell, the only person who knew I was here, was Charleigh.

  Well, and her parents.

  And now, Cade Johnston.

  Once again, the panic begins to rise.

  During Charleigh’s three o’clock call, I could tell something was worrying her.

  She finally let it out, during our last call.

  “I’m so sorry, Dylan, but Cade’s going to show up. He and I have been friends for forever; I don’t even know how I haven’t introduced you two yet, to be honest. But you see, he’s supposed to be on this project and he didn’t like Blake, who was casted as his opposite, so I told him to demand a casting change and, shit, Dylan, but he liked your audition. And then he figured out you were at the house. I’m so sorry.”

  I knew exactly what project she’d been talking a
bout.

  It was one of the latest romance novels to be made into a film, and the moment it was announced, it was the talk of the internet. I remember auditioning for it. I’d wanted so badly to be part of this project.

  It was one that could easily put me on the map, more so than You Can’t Hide, the psych thriller that…

  Well.

  The psych thriller that basically has now ruined my career.

  Charleigh told me that Blake backed out of Forever and a Day, and that Cade was asking for me to take the spot.

  If it were seven months ago…

  But not now.

  No way, no how.

  My eyes focus on the dying embers in the firepit. I have no idea how I’m going to deal with him coming here.

  I do know, though, that him showing up is going to shatter the illusion I’ve built around me.

  My secret won’t remain safe.

  Chapter Four

  Cade

  After stopping too many times—I didn’t take into account the fact my leg and hip wouldn’t enjoy sitting in a car for hours at a time—the sun was beginning its descent in the sky by the time I made it to Lake Tahoe, and as much as I was killing to get this show on the road, to talk Tatum into the movie and get her pretty backside on a plane with me to Vancouver, I realized that I was probably better off buttering the woman up in the morning.

  Now though, I couldn’t sleep.

  The hotel I checked into was a low-key place that was mostly used during ski season. While the room was far more…antique…than I was accustomed to, it was only for the one night.

  It wasn’t the aesthetics—see, lack of class—that was keeping me awake though.

  No.

  It was Tatum O’Malley.

  Apparently tonight was the premier of the last movie she’d been in, and sometime between leaving this afternoon and arriving an hour before, the news outlets started blowing up.

  Where’s Tatum O’Malley? Your guess is as good as ours.

  The ever-elusive Tatum O’Malley was nowhere to be found at the premier of 682.

  “I haven’t spoken to her in months.”—Grant Maxwell, when asked if he knew where O’Malley was.

  I read through the articles.