“She wouldn’t even take my number, acted like I was a walking open sore to be avoided at all cost.” A less confident man would’ve sustained a serious ego blow. Good thing I’m not that guy.
“Maybe she’s not into dudes.”
Pausing, I considered it. Then I recall her staring at my junk in the hallway. “I don’t think so. She might hate me, but I definitely caught her checking out my package.”
D nods thoughtfully. “Don’t worry about it till it’s time to worry about it.”
He’s right. I’m always looking to jump in and get my hands dirty. Maybe it’s time I learn to keep my hands in my pockets. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.” I rub the back of my stiff neck.
“What are you gonna do?”
I think of what my father said. He’s always there, hanging over me like a black fucking cloud. I have to pick my battles with him or lose the war.
“Nothing…for now.”
The front door opens and Brock wanders in. He halts at the threshold of the open kitchen and takes in the scene.
“Nutella sandwich?”
A confused frown pulls at my face. How is it I’m the only one not in the know here?
Dallas smiles and Brock adds, “Karen and Jill?”
“Just Karen. Jill had soccer practice.”
Brock chuckles.
Two minutes later, Cole walks in and scans the walls and the refrigerator. Then he pins the three of us with a deadly glare. “Which one of you motherfuckers broke into my Nutella stash?”
Chapter 4
Reagan
A nagging sense of guilt wakes me abruptly at 2 a.m. It’s the third night in a row this has happened so there’s no guessing why. Whatever that gene is that allows you to give a shit about other people––the gene my father lacks––I seem to have inherited double the Reynolds family’s share. And presently, it’s screaming in my ear with a megaphone that I’m the reason for this girl’s problems and therefore somehow need to fix this mess if I ever want to sleep again.
I grab my phone, log on to Sharknet, the school’s social networking site, and begin searching for any sign of Alice Bailey…and come up empty. Wtf.
Facebook? Her profile is on private. Snapchat? Yeah, she’s not on Snapchat. Insta? Random artsy pictures. Not a single one of her. This might not even be her. There are like…a million Alice Baileys. Devastating because I am fairly certain I won’t get a minute’s peace until I sort this out.
I jump out of bed and march down to Dall’s room, pound on his door. “Phone tree!” I move on to Brock’s, then Cole’s. “Wake up. Phone tree!”
They shuffle out of their bedrooms, rubbing the sleep from their eyes.
“What the fuck, dude? I have a history exam tomorrow morning,” Cole gripes. “Today actually.”
They make their way to the living room and crash onto the oversized couches.
“This better be good,” Brock grunts.
“I need to track down Alice Bailey––”
“Isn’t it a little late to be thinking with your dick?” Cole grunts.
“Not a hookup, asshole,” I fire back. “This is important.”
“Our boy, here––” Dallas takes it upon himself to explain. “Almost ran her over and can’t stand to see this travesty of justice go unvindicated.”
“That’s not a word, bro,” Cole mumbles, eyes closing fast.
“Which one?”
“Unvindicated.”
“It should be.” Dallas looks confused. “What then?”
“Unavenged,” Brock offers. “You could use unavenged.”
“That’s not a word, either,” claims Cole.
“Yes, it is, Merriam–Webster,” Brock insists.
“Bullshit––” Dallas argues. “I got fifty bucks that says it is a word. Somebody check a dictionary app. Rea, you want in on this action?”
“Are you jerkoffs done?” I cut in, my patience wearing out with the lack of sleep.
“It doesn’t sound like a real word,” one of them mutters.
“Read it and weep, ladies!” Dallas holds up his phone as proof. “It is a word.”
“Is this chick hot?”
“Search Sharknet,” Brock says, speaking over Cole. At least, I think that’s what he said. I can’t make it out with his face smashed into the couch pillow.
“Checked all social media already,” I tell him, bypassing Cole’s question altogether. “I’m starting to wonder if she’s in witness protection.”
Is Bailey hot? Big dark eyes, full lips. Yeah, she’s hot. Not my type but hot in her own way.
And these animals will never know.
That would complicate my life more than it already is and it’s so complicated already you need a playbook to follow along. “I need you guys to call every girl on your phone tree and get me her digits.”
“Seriously, what’s the deal with this girl?” Brock’s frustrated. I get it. I also know I’ve been there for each and every one of them when they’ve needed it.
“I’m responsible…this girl’s in trouble because of me.”
Sitting up, Brock nods, scrapes his hair back, and rubs his face awake. “Okay.”
The three of them complain but get busy. Nobody messes with phone tree.
Alice
I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t in love with movies. It started as a way to escape a quiet, lonely home. My father took my mother’s death very hard. I don’t remember much other than him retreating into himself. Hardly ever speaking. We could go days with only a few words exchanged. So I lost myself in old DVDs of Lassie, Spy Kids, Coraline, and more that my mother had purchased at garage sales around the neighborhood.
By the time I turned eleven the obsession had transformed from simply watching them, to wanting to create them. School notebooks were covered in dialogue. Dream boards, dedicated to the stories I had written, decorated my bedroom walls. There was a magic to it I couldn’t explain, and a rush I couldn’t get anywhere else.
Then my father bought me a Sony video camera for my twelfth birthday and the addiction went turbo.
I recruited kids that lived on my block to act in my amateur movies. I watched every online video there was on filmmaking, hit the library for books on the subject. Stole books on the subject. Yeah, let’s skip right over that.
By the time I hit my teens I could tell you where you could film without a permit, how to get people to sign waivers, which high schools had strong drama clubs from which you could recruit actors willing to work for free.
So it’s no surprise that every time I step inside the hallowed halls of the film and television building goose bumps ripple over my skin.
This is my church. The only church I worship in. The other one failed me when I was old enough to know I could ask for things. Not this one, though. The goose bumps, the shiver up my back––that’s the universe telling me I’m right where I’m supposed to be.
“The deadline to submit a short for the James Cameron internship is the end of the semester. That’s plenty of time to produce something if you don’t already have something ready to go,” Professor Marshall announces.
She walks back and forth, scanning all the ultra alert faces drinking in every syllable that falls from her knowledgeable lips. Marshall’s is a master class in film and video production. People come from all over the world to take it and the crowded-to-capacity lecture hall serves as proof.
It also happens to be my favorite this semester and not only because it’s the gateway to the prized summer internship with James Cameron’s production company; Cameron not only known for being an Oscar-winning director but also a top cinematographer. I’m also hopelessly in love with this class because we get to actually film and edit, putting into practice everything we learn.
“Interviews start in November, people. Sign up for a time slot if you haven’t done so already.”
And I plan to nail it. This bitch is mine.
“Have you figured out what you’re submitting?” Simon whispers, leaning over Morgan who’s seated between us. Creature of habit like me, he chose his seat the first day of class and never moved. Looking uncomfortable, Morgan shrinks back.
A mop of dark wavy hair falls into his almond-shaped, chocolaty eyes and he flips it aside.
“I think so,” I answer.
It’s a lie. I’m a dirty, filthy liar. I really haven’t. No clue whatsoever what I’m going to submit and it’s kind of freaking me out. This is major-league important and I’m being indecisive and I am never indecisive. “Have you?”
“Still debating between a short film I submitted to Sundance last year and something I worked on over the summer, an indie film that a friend of mine directed and I worked on as DP.”
He’s cute and accomplished and he knows it. I should probably stay as far away from him as possible. “Wow. Trying to psych me out already? Let the Hunger Games begin.” He chuckles and twin dimples pop up on his cheeks. I should stay away––buuut maybe I won’t. I mean, a girl can’t survive on passion for her craft alone.
I’ve always gone for the creative type. My high school boyfriend could be related to this guy there are so many similarities. Where Jack was moody and unpredictable, however, and as high-maintenance emotionally as you can get, Simon strikes me as much more easygoing. And easygoing is good.
He plays with the leather bracelets wrapped around his left wrist. “I was about to say if you need any help putting something together, all you have to do is ask. I have access to an Avid machine.”
A professional editing machine? I suck in a breath. Sexiest words in the English language. “Now you’re talking dirty.”
He flashes me an Instagram smile and Morgan rolls her eyes. She’s been low-key real-life trolling him since the beginning of the semester and I’m surprised he hasn’t picked up on it yet. “I didn’t see you in study group for Film Theory.”