Hollywood Holden: Los Angeles Bad Boys (12 page)

I
cry
on the entire drive home after my break-up with Holden.

Is that even what that was? Honestly, it's happening so often, I don't know what he and I are anymore—besides a train wreck.

The heart-to-heart with Jude helped me see things more clearly, but it didn't make anything easier.

Holden texts me that night, and I thank him for giving me space.

Which I mean.

I need that. Space. Time.

Reflection.

Of course, that lasts for the length of one night.

Because even if I want it for a longer period of time, I'm not on some meditative retreat where I can figure out my issues. I'm living real life, in my parents’ house.

The next morning over breakfast, my parents are discussing their summer plans.

"We're going to spend six weeks rebuilding the Homeless Shelter. It's near collapse," Dad explains. "And some local churches have agreed to partner with us to help build an annex for a summer program for the kids who stay there."

"Wow, that's quite the undertaking," I tell them, pouring my coffee, trying not to take it personally that they don't ask me a single thing about my day with Holden. It isn't fair to expect them to be something they aren't. Meaning: supportive.

"What are you doing this summer, Bex?" Mom asks. "Besides looking for a teaching job?"

"I haven't decided, to be honest. I've scoured the job listings for drama teacher jobs, but they’re so rare. I think the best bet is staying in Tolling and subbing at the school next year until there's an opening. I don't really want to move to a random city, all by myself."

"That plan could work, though you won't have any health insurance," Mom says, spreading jam on her toast.

I twist my lips. "True. I hadn't thought of that."

"That's why you have us," Dad says genially, patting my hand. "To help you make good, solid decisions."

"Your plan sounds wonderful though Bexley," Mom says. "And you can help your father and me at the shelter this summer."

I nod, wondering if I should be honest right now, mention my thoughts about Holden—the heart-wonderings that are fluttering around in my head when I let myself wander down the road of
what-if.

But before I can even utter his name, my dad adds, "To be frank, this time you've been spending with Holden has worried us more than a little. It's nice to see you here at our breakfast table this morning. It reminds us that we have done a good job raising you."

"And if I'd stayed the night in LA, that would change your opinion?" I can't help but ask.

"Not necessarily," Mom says sheepishly. "But yes, this rekindled friendship reminds us of the hard spell we went through with you when you were in high school."

"Hard spell?" I laugh. "Mom. I got straight As. I was in the Honor Society. Volunteered on the weekends. Starred in too many plays to count. Got a full ride to college. I don't think I could have done all of that while going through a
hard spell
."

"To be fair, you did challenge us, even with the time you spent at that theater. It was all so indulgent. So ... unnecessary."

"I loved the time I spent on stage."

Mom smiles, much too sweetly. "We know you did. But does doing something because you love it make it worthy of your time?"

I pick up my empty coffee cup, knowing this conversation isn't going anywhere.

"Thank you for the offer to stay here. It means a lot," I tell them, determined to take the high ground.

"Of course, Bexley. You're the best daughter—and best teacher—in all of Tolling."

"Big shoes to fill," I say, leaving the kitchen, biting the inside of my mouth to squelch any possibility of losing my mind.

* * *

I
FaceTime Sami after work
, knowing she must be buried in finals. Grateful, for the first time, that I spent last summer doing extra courses so that now, while student teaching, it’s the last box that needs checking to get my college degree.

"Hey," I say, pulling a French fry from my bag of fast food—a PMS indulgence I legitimately deserve. End-of-year high school students suck, even if they are cute drama geeks.

"You okay? You went MIA all week," Sami says, reaching for a Frappuccino while sitting in the front seat of her car.

"Are you driving?"

"Relax. I'm parked outside of Starbucks. I've been here cramming for hours."

"Which class is stressing you out the most?"

"Poli-Sci. It's so dumb. Remind me again why I wanted to be a Psych major?"

"Uh." I laugh, knowing Sami may be great at pop culture bar trivia night, and better at naming songs on the radio than Shazam, but she doesn't have the market cornered on depth. It should be interesting to see where she ends up in the fall.

"I know," she moans. "God. I've been studying every free moment."

"Is it helping?"

"Well, I was going to add, I've been studying every spare moment starting yesterday at like six PM."

"So less than twenty-four hours?"

"Pretty much." We both laugh, her drinking her coffee shake and me gobbling up greasy fries. "So what's up?" she asks. "You never really told me how your date went last Saturday."

Knowing I only gave her cryptic texts since then, I dish the entire story. Walking the beach, awkwardly meeting the agent, the patio sex, the shower quickie, ending with the disastrous drinks at TropiCALI.

When I finish, Sami sighs. "Did he seriously say you were the one scared of commitment?"

"Why?" I ask, surprised that she's chosen to latch onto that nugget considering I had a hunch Holden might actually be right about that part. I
am
the one walking away. Always.

Pushing him back. Always.

"It's just kind of insightful, don't you think?"

"In a lot of ways, yeah ... but, Sami, Holden's the bad guy here, right? He had his agent come to scope me out. I never asked for that."

"What did you ask for, Bexley?" she asks.

"I didn't ask for anything. Not a single thing."

"Are you sure?"

"What are you talking about? Of course I'm sure."

"Okay." Sami looks away from the camera, and I know her well enough to know there is more to this than
okay
.

"Just say it," I beg her. "Please."

"He said he loves you, Bexley. And then you literally ran away. I just wonder if maybe that's worth looking into."

"But, Sami," I tell her, dropping my guard. "If Holden was right ... that means I just wasted four years of my life. I don't know if I can face that."

"Would you rather waste the next four decades? Hell, Bexley, we can all get re-dos. Start-overs."

"No." I shake my head. "Life is not a video game."

"Maybe not," Sami says. "But it isn't all or nothing. Life isn't black-and-white."

"Maybe you
will
be a good psychologist."

"Thanks, brat," she tells me. "Now help me study. I need you to quiz me."

I open the email she's forwarded from the professor about the final and start reading off questions, while stuffing my face with the rest of my fries.

I’m grateful as hell that she isn't the type of friend who walks away; she stays, listens, speaks her mind. And I can't help but wonder if that's the sort of girl I want to be.

And what it would take to stay.

Not here in Tolling, but with Holden, through thick and thin.

I
put
Trenton off as long as humanly possible.

Long enough to decide what the fuck I need to do.

What I really want to do is Bexley—anywhere and everywhere. I want her to ride my cock up and down, all day. All night. Always.

She still hasn't called. Two fucking weeks and not a single call.

Nothing.

At this point I want to fucking let it go. Drop it. Every godforsaken memory of her perfection.

Because I can take a fucking hint.

She doesn't want me. If she did, she’d be here. With me. Now.

The morning I'm supposed to head to Trenton's office to deliver my decision, I wake with a raging hard-on that only Bexley could ease down.

The sun shines through my drapes. My house is empty, my hand firmly planted on my cock.

I indulge myself by thinking of her, and of her big, luscious tits. I imagine her rubbing them up and down, the length of my cock, titty-fucking them nice and good. I stroke myself as I imagine her hair falling over her shoulders, her bright red lips widening over the tip of my cock as she sucks me nice and slow, rolling my balls in her hand.

Her ass would be in the air, of course, and I imagine myself slapping it, giving her a nice spanking—one she deserves, and one she wants. For being so naughty. For making me wait for her for so long.

My cock is so hard in my hand, as I keep rubbing it out, wanting to come as I imagine her round ass in my face, me licking that sweet cunt of hers, as she licks my cock until I come all over those tits.

Fuck. I move my hand faster on my shaft, exploding as I think of her gagging on my cock, as I think of her swallowing my come, the salty release dripping on her swollen lips as I suck her clit, letting her pussy juice pour all over my face, just the way I like.

I could lick her pussy every day for the rest of my goddamn life. If only she'd fucking let me.

Getting out of bed and showering, I try to wash away my thoughts of Bexley, try to let the memories swirl down the drain—but just one look at my softening cock, and I know even the thought of her is strong enough to get my wood hard as nails, unrelenting. Needy.

Driving to Trenton's, I mentally psych myself up for what's ahead, for what we need to discuss: the future of my fucking career.

"Holden, good to see you," Trenton says, as I step into his office.

"Yeah, sorry I took so damn long to get a decision to you."

"Will I be happy?"

"Not sure. I don't really fucking know what you want."

"You don't? I want tons of cash, and that's about it."

"And for your clients to be happy, right?" I ask, narrowing my eyes at him.

"Of course, of course," he adds, with too much force, which tells me that actually, no, my happiness is at the bottom of his list of priorities.

"Good. Because I am happy."

"Really, even though that girl of yours is out?"

"Shit, of course I want her in. But dammit, I'm done forcing something that someone else doesn't want. She wanted out. So she left."

"You, Hollywood Holden, notorious asshole and womanizer, just let her walk away?"

"It wasn't walk so much as run." I laugh, knowing how self-deprecating I sound. And he's right. Maybe as recently as a few months ago, my biggest concern was getting the heat off my back over a stupid-ass fight at a bar that got me bad press.

But it isn't anymore.

Being with Bexley—however fucked-up the time together was—reminded me that I came to this town on my own terms. I walked into LA and created a name for myself by being myself. Those fans I made, they can follow me anywhere I go, but I sure as hell don't want them if they only want my back as Johnny Jumper.

I’m more than that.

Bexley always thought I was.

I've been scared, too. Scared to take a risk.

I said that Bexley was the one who was scared, but I was fucking wrong.

Because Johnny Jumper may be a firefighter who jumps out of planes, dodges bullets, and saves the fucking day … but he’s a safety net. A sure thing.

And that isn't who I want to be. I want to be a risk, a chance. I want to beat the odds.

"So is it script number one, or number two?" Trenton asks, a smug look of curiosity on his face.

"Neither," I tell him. "I take door number three." I drop a script on his desk. "This is the movie I'm making. Make it happen."

I don't wait for an answer.

This time, I'm the one who walks away.

T
he school year
is wrapping up. It's Friday night, and only two more days of class next week before it's over.

And no job prospects. Not even a nibble.

I'm not stressed, exactly, but I am feeling less grounded than ever.

But my advising teacher, Rita, is out for three days with her mom in San Diego. I can't help but wonder if something has gone wrong.

When Mom and Dad show up in Rita's office, the one I use, during my planning period I’m a little caught off guard. They’re very respectful of personal space during work hours, no surprise. They take everything super seriously, and even if I'm student teaching at their school, in their opinion decorum preempts family.

"Hey Mom, Dad. Everything okay?"

Mom grins and reaches for my hands, squeezing them. "Oh, honey. We just heard through the grapevine."

"What?" I ask, confused.

"Has Mark not been in yet?" she asks.

"Mark?"

Dad waves his hand. "She means Principal Pratt."

I register the principal's first name—something I never think about, considering he was
my
principal when I was a student for four years. "No, he hasn't been by. Is something wrong? Have you heard something from Rita?"

Mom beams at me, looking prouder than when I got the full-ride to college.

"What?" I ask, laughing in confusion.

"We're just so darn proud of you, sweetie. Always working so hard, choosing such a noble profession. We are so honored to be your parents."

"Okay, now you're scaring me." I wave my hands in the air. "What's this all about?"

"Don't ruin the surprise," Dad says.

"Surprise?" My eyebrows raise, wanting to know what's up.

"Tonight," Dad says, wagging a finger at me. "We celebrate. I'm grilling steaks, for our girl."

"And I'm making coconut cream pie," Mom adds as they scoot out of the office, causing me to smile despite myself. It feels good to make them so happy, and the nervous energy they brought with them circles me for the rest of the planning period.

So when Principal Pratt shows up in Rita's well-organized—courtesy of me—office in the new theater, I'm not surprised.

"Morning, Mr. Pratt," I say formally, then asking if everything is okay. Not that something would be seriously wrong if my parents were acting so dang cheery.

"Oh, things are fine on my front. Ms. Childs, on the other hand, has informed me that she won't be returning next year."

"She won't be? Like, at all?" I pull out the pencil that's tucked behind my ear and twirl it nervously in my fingers. "Is it her mom?"

"Afraid so. She had surgery this spring, and the recovery has been poor. Rita is moving in with her, and has requested a leave of absence for the upcoming school year."

"Wow. I'm so sorry, but I'm glad her mom has her," I say, absorbing this unexpected turn of events.

"The same way your parents are lucky to have you, Bexley. They were so happy to know you were doing your student teaching here."

"It's been a great experience."

"So you feel as though you can hack it? These crazy kids aren't giving you a run for your money?"

"Not exactly." I laugh. "Rita was a good example, and of course my parents have been more than willing to help as I learned the ropes."

Mr. Pratt smiles warmly, and it feels nice to know I did such a good job here. I put my heart and soul into my student teaching, and had a fun time while doing it.

"So what would you say if I offered you a one-year contract, Bexley?"

My eyes widen. "Is this an official offer, Mr. Pratt?" I press my hand to my chest, flattered, and knowing that this is a moment I will never forget—the moment I make a choice about so much.

"It is," he says, grinning. "It's the end of the year, and it isn't an extended contract. So if we can avoid a hiring committee, it would be my pleasure to end the year knowing we had a drama teacher secured for next year."

I smile. Swallow.

One year isn't forever. Heck, I spent four years wondering what sleeping with Holden would be like. Four years tormenting myself over our good-bye.

Four years wanting a re-do, but also terrified at the prospect of what I would actually do if I was face-to-face with him again.

And now I know. I know that when Holden said he loved me, when he flat-out told me I was his, that his heart was mine for the taking ... I ran.

But I don't have to run anymore.

Now, I get to choose.

For the first time in my life, the choice feels easy.

Like it isn't a choice at all.

Like it was predestined, like it’s meant to be.