STEELE MARKOV
No, I have no reflection in the mirror. I have no reason to look upon it. I see who I am reflected in your eyes. I know what you think about me. But what if I told you, you were wrong?
Fangs in the Night, scene 8, page 48 Fierce Brothers Studios
That’s quite a book you’re reading.”
Beckett looked up from his biography on George Washington and stared at me as I stood in the doorway of his trailer, blocking the Wednesday afternoon sun. “It does have lots of big words in it.” He quirked a brow. “Maybe you could help me.”
“Just sound them out.” I shut the door behind me and stepped inside. “I’m here to tell you I quit.”
Beckett scratched his shoulder and yawned, an indulged prince in his castle.
“I said I quit.”
He went back to his book. “I heard you.”
“Okay then.” I stood there like a fool, counting the ways I’d love to tell him off. “I just wanted to say good-bye.”
“Resignation not accepted.” His long finger slowly turned a page.
My face flushed with angry heat. “Don’t pretend like this bothers you—”
The sentence died as Beckett slammed his book on the table and pushed to his feet. He closed the gap between us in three steps and towered over me. “You want to think I’m a party guy, fine. You want to think I chase anything in tight jeans, I’ll take that too. But at least I’ve been faithful to our agreement.”
“And to Taylor? Have you been faithful to her?”
“You said you’d help me until the movie was done. That was our agreement, in case you need a reminder.”
“But—”
“Haven’t I driven you to wherever you asked?”
“Yes.”
“Have I treated you badly on this set?”
I shook my head. “No, but—”
“Is this what you do? Just shut down when things get tough?
Run away when it doesn’t go your way?”
I flinched at his words. “You are such a jerk.”
“Maybe so.” His jaw tightened. “But not about our bargain. Looks to me like you’re the one flaking out. I thought you were better than that.”
Yeah, well, I wasn’t. “Why can’t you just let me go?”
His gaze slowly dipped to my lips, then slid back to my eyes.
“Maybe I don’t want to.” He massaged the back of his neck. “I thought we were friends.” Something swam in those eyes. Something searching, almost plaintive. “Finley, I know you’re upset, and I’m sorry. But my life isn’t my own. There are things about this business you don’t understand.”
“I understand more than you think.” Like the fact that Beckett was a master manipulator and a total player.
“No,” he said. “You don’t. Besides, how are you going to get to all those destinations you have mapped out? Are you going to give up on that too?”
“I’ll find a way.”
“Or you let me take you. Like we originally discussed.”
“Why? Why are you doing this?”
“Because I want you here.”
His forceful words hung between us, balancing between his interpretation and mine. “What does that even mean?” That he liked me? That he wanted to spend time with me?
When he looked at me, the rogue was all gone. Instead I saw a guy who was tired, who was in high demand from everyone who knew him. “The director was threatening to replace me on the movie just a month ago.” He spoke softly, as if his words might leak through the walls of the trailer. “Then you came along and helped me with my lines, and I had him shoving contracts in my face for the next deal.”
“So I’m a good-luck charm?” Bitterness pierced my ego like a pin. Why did I even care?
Beckett reached out with both hands and slowly lifted my stocking cap off my head. He ran a hand over my hair and smiled. “Static.”
I grabbed my hat from his grip. “Your improved acting skills have nothing to do with me.”
He planted his hand over the space above my head again and sighed. “I can’t explain it.”
“Try.”
“You’re real, Finley.”
You’re flawed. You’re not perfect like every other girl I see.
So what if I was real? I didn’t live in Hollywood.
“I’m just . . . comfortable around you. Everyone else is so fake, so eager to kiss my butt, to tell me yes when the answer is no. That’s not what I want. Nobody else but the director has the guts to tell me when I deliver a bad line or mess up a scene. But you. I need honest feedback right now.”
“Ask your dad.”
Beckett’s eyebrows slammed together. “He’d yell anyone to the ground who suggested I wasn’t delivering an Oscar performance with every word.”
“Sounds very encouraging to me—”
“No.” His jaw tensed. “I want someone who’ll just be truthful. Do you have any idea how little honesty I see? I can’t trust anyone. But you barely tolerate me.” His lips quirked. “It’s perfect.”
“Sorry. Not interested. Our agreement was that I help out as your assistant. I owe you nothing more.”
“Do you want to find that gravestone in your brother’s pictures?”
“Of course I do. But I also distinctly remember you said it was impossible.”
“I’ll make it happen.”
“You said yourself there were thousands—”
“Trust me.”
My laugh was low and cynical. “I might not be at the top of my class, but I’m not a total idiot.”
“I’m asking you to do this one thing for me.” His voice was so sincere, but he was an actor. “Do this as my friend, and I’ll find the site of the photo.”
“Beckett?” I crooked my finger and he leaned close until my lips were near his ear.
“Yes?”
“Find yourself another friend.”