I didn’t argue. At the rate we were going, picking apart every word, every nuance… we’d never get through the script. I swallowed and sat back, looking down at the script and staring at the damn sentence whose words kept jumbling in my mind.
It’s my money; I think I know what I want to spend it on.
I wet my lips and spoke.
CHAPTER 63
“It’s my money; I think I know what I want to spend it on.” My hands found their way to my hips and rested there, on top of a tweed skirt, the back of which—hidden from the camera—was held together with jumbo clips.
“Honey,” Cole drawled, lifting a glass to his lips, the ice clinking as he tilted it back. “You don’t want to invest in refreshments. Let the boys downtown find a Certificate of Deposit for that money. Or bonds. Bonds are a great, safe place for your inheritance to sit.”
My lips tightened, and all I had to think about was Cole’s feet running off my porch for my eyes to flare. “Don’t talk down to me. If I want to light my money and smoke it like your cheap cigars, I’ll do so. I believe in this product, just the same as you, or Mr. Eggleston, or any of the other investors. And I want in.”
I bent, the saddle shoes I wore sticking slightly to the floor, and pulled at my briefcase, hefting it to the desk, and pressed the side latches, the locks popping out. So far so good. This was the thirteenth take, and I was sweating underneath the scratchy skirt. Don had turned up the thermostat, wanting an ‘authentic feel’ to the set, and my hairline was damp with perspiration. We were in one of the created sets in the old supermarket—this one of Royce Mitchell’s office, a drafty space with dingy cream walls, wood floors, a big desk, which Cole reclined behind, his leather chair tilted back. I stood across the desk from him, three cameras all pointing my way. Cole had nailed his lines already. These retakes were all for me, Don or Cole unhappy for one reason or another, each new criticism a rattle to my already shaky confidence. I pulled open the briefcase lid, ready to grab at the small stack of worn dollar bills and toss them onto the desk. My hand reached out and froze, my eyes widening at the contents.
Condoms. A hundred of them, the first one that snagged my eye advertising its LEMON FLAVORED! ability in big, proud font. I pushed my hand into the pile of packages and found the stack of money. I pulled it out and threw it on the desk, my eyes finding Cole’s, who smirked at me before leaning forward and picking up the cash.
“Some of the investors aren’t wild about having a woman on board, Ms. Pinkerton.” Cole was still amused by the condoms; I saw the curve of his mouth as he bit back a smile, his eyes beaming at me. I looked down and saw a bright green one that had fallen out of the briefcase during my dramatic throw of the money. I left it on the desk and shut the lid, praying it wasn’t in sight of a camera.
“And what’s your opinion?” I practically snarled the words, a detailed plan forming in my head, one that involved my hands around his neck as soon as the AD yelled “Cut!”
He shrugged and opened his desk drawer, setting the cash in it. “I love women. But then again, you already know that, don’t you, Ms. Pinkerton?”
It was off script—way off script—and I stiffened, my fingers tightening in their press on the briefcase. “I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Mitchell.” I glared at him and felt the uneasy shift in the room. I didn’t know what to do. Whether to play along with his ad lib or to turn to Don and ask what in the blue blazes was going on. I saw Dennis along the edge of the set, and he gave me a ‘keep going’ gesture with his hands. I looked back to Cole, who pushed the drawer closed and stood up, setting his drink down on the desk.
The room, which was hot before, was suddenly boiling, the lighting hanging from all sides of the ceiling blaring down, the thirty people in the room contributing to the pressure, too many eyes watching this one terrible moment. I felt, for a horrific second, like I would faint, too many takes, too much pressure, the condom stash still under my palms, Cole stepping closer, around his desk, toward me. I had no idea what he was going to say, would have no idea how to react, how Ida Pinkerton—what a horrible name—would react, and then he was right there, his hand reaching out, running along the outside of the starched white shirt, caressing the curve of my—
I slapped him, the sound loud, like the crack of a whip in the quiet room, thirty-some people hearing the sound of my palm, a collective intake moving through the room.
“Don’t you dare touch me,” I seethed, my finger moving on its own accord and jabbing into his chest. It was a mistake, his chest muscles hard and firm, and it made me think of my mouth covering his ... his hands gripping me, hugging me to his chest. I shouldn’t have rolled over, shouldn’t have made that last move, putting him inside me, my mouth on his. It made that moment in my bedroom, that mistake, even more personal.
He stepped back, his cheek red from my slap, and my hand smarted when it brushed against my side.
“I’m sorry, Country,” he said, so low I had to strain to hear the words. “I thought you liked it when I touched you.” He flashed me a cocky smile, and my palm itched to reconnect with his face. He was lucky it was only a slap.
“Cut!” Don yelled, and his body was suddenly between us, his hand on Cole’s chest and my arm. “What the fuck was that?” The comment was directed at us both, and I snapped, yanking my arm away from him.
“Ask your golden boy.” I nodded at Cole. “He’s the one who filled my briefcase with condoms.”