The Copper Valley Bro Code Series: Volume 1, page 29
My ass that I got from my father’s stocky side of the family.
Not the slender but gracefully curved ass of my mother’s side.
Actually, I think I got both of their asses. There’s no shortage of booty here.
“Cats are awesome,” Beck tells me as he takes Meda and holds her like a football. “Like dogs or kids, except smaller and cleaner. Who’s a good kitty?”
He scratches her under the chin, and she gives me another look while she purrs audibly, her blue eye telling me this is how to treat your queen, her amber eye calling me a sell-out, the combination clearly broadcasting if you loved me, you’d scratch me like this all day every day too.
“You’ve been friends for eight years?” my mom’s saying to Mackenzie. “Do you do those role-playing games too?”
“Mom, I don’t do live-action RPGs anymore,” I say quickly. “Mackenzie’s a trash engineer. We met in school.”
“Senior year,” she agrees, her blue eyes still unnaturally wide. “She was the only other girl dressed up like Zoe at the Browncoat night at the campus theater.”
“You went as Zoe?” Beck asks me. He glances down my body, and a slow grin spreads across his lips. “With the tight pants and everything?”
“She was smokin’ hot,” Mackenzie says.
“I can see it,” he says with a nod.
“Stop looking at my daughter,” Dad growls.
“What’s a Browncoat?” Mom asks.
“It’s what fans of the TV show Firefly call ourselves,” Beck tells her. He gestures to my Firefly Babies print on the kitchen wall. “Still so fucking cool. Where’d you get that?”
“Internet.” The internet. It’s a blessing and a curse.
“Holes in the screens,” my dad mutters as he passes by the kitchen windows. “Drafty. Room for a spy cam.”
“He’s studying up for his next role,” Mom whispers to me, which I’d already figured out, because he’s using his Bat-Dad voice, which only comes out when he’s prepping for a badass role. “We’re not allowed to talk about it yet.”
Beck’s still petting Meda, who’s now purring loudly enough to rattle the drafty windows.
And I want to climb up into my bed and go to sleep and wake up tomorrow to go to work like the last three days haven’t happened.
There’s not supposed to be chaos in my house.
There’s supposed to be peace and calm and videogames and occasional crazy baseball superstitions and sometimes Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Dr. Who marathons, but not chaos.
And not my best friend finding out who my parents are. Not this way, anyway.
Or Beck Ryder playing the unlikely hero who distracted her with questions about the best way to make cheese fries as soon as she realized what I’d been hiding from her for the last eight years, though the distraction only lasted so long before she was back to gaping at my mom.
It’s only a matter of time before she figures out I broke up with Trent last year because while the sex was amazing, I didn’t want him meeting my parents.
“Where are you going, sweetheart?” Mom asks. “You’re not sneaking out the window, are you?”
“Headache,” I tell her.
It’s not a lie.
“Oh, here. I have some herbal supplements that’ll perk you up in no time.”
“Don’t do drugs,” my dad growls at me.
Mom’s shaking out her massive Prada bag all over the kitchen table.
Mackenzie’s eyes are going rounder at the number of supplement bottles tumbling out.
“Let’s see…not the Valerian root or the kava…oh, here. Here’s some magnesium. And lavender. Lavender will help you relax.”
“Mom, I don’t need supplements.”
“It’s all natural,” Dad says as he prowls to the back door. “Better than drugs. Just a deadbolt? Just a deadbolt?”
I need to get out of here.
“Actually, I was going to take her out for milkshakes,” Beck announces.
“Yes,” I agree, even though the fries are in the oven with the bacon right now and there’s no way I’m leaving Mackenzie here alone with my parents and Cupcake, because that would be mean. “Me and Mackenzie. Because it’s too hard to stay here and watch the Fireballs get creamed.”
“Oh, honey, that’s wonderful!” Mom claps her hands and grabs a hairbrush from amidst the piles of herbal supplement bottles. “Here, just let me do your hair quick, and I think I have the perfect shade of lipstick for you in my overnight bag.”
“Need a dog,” my dad growls while he stares out the window in the back door, arms folded, and studies my normally tranquil small back yard.
“Mom, I brushed my hair this morning.”
“Oh, sweetie, it looks so cute when you put it in a French twist. Just two seconds—”
“I like it down,” Beck says.
“Are you trying to embarrass her?”
“It’s soft.” He curls a lock of my hair around his finger, and dammit, the gentle tug is lighting up the nerve endings all over my scalp. “And pretty.”
He’s holding my purring cat and playing with my hair and standing so close that I can feel the heat off his skin, and I have to remind myself that I don’t need a guy in my life to be complete.
Especially with all the other complications my life comes with.
And all the complications his life comes with.
Assuming he’s not just playing a part here.
I mentioned complications, right?
“Not enough security,” my dad growls.
“Fixing that right now,” Beck says.
I dodge my mom and her hairbrush and trip over the pig, who squeals and rushes to Mom, who squeaks and drops the hairbrush, which crashes to the ground and splits in two. The handle spins across the linoleum and comes to a stop at Mackenzie’s feet.
“I’m starting to get it,” she says to me. “Screw you famous people. Me and Sarah are going to my place.”
She links her arm through mine and marches me out of the kitchen, pointing a finger at the three famous people who try to object. “Stay. Don’t burn the bacon. And hand over the cat. And if the Fireballs lose, it’s all y’all’s fault.”
Beck hands me my cat. My mom just gapes at us, probably because neither of us is wearing shoes. My dad tries to follow us, but Beck holds out an arm. “She has a taser. She’ll be fine.”
Mackenzie pulls me out the front door, where the security guys are pulling a random dude with a camera out of my gardenia bushes.
My heart stops. Just freezes in terror.
They know where I live.
They know where I live, and the next step is they know who my parents are, and the step after that is my high school prom is about to be rebroadcast to the entire universe on repeat for the next twelve years, and maybe not Tahiti.
Maybe I should find a monastery in the Himalayan mountains and take up painting and meditation.
“We got this, Miss Dempsey,” the bigger of the two guys says. “You need a lift somewhere?”
“Yes,” Mackenzie answers for us, and a third security guy pulls a black car to the curb. Without hesitation, we both climb in.
And I’m really, really glad I checked out all of their credentials when I got home earlier, because otherwise we’d be sticking out like sore thumbs in Mackenzie’s Fireball-mobile, because I don’t get in cars with security guards whose credentials I haven’t checked myself.
“You have so much talking to do,” Mackenzie murmurs as we pull away from the curb. “But catch your breath first.” She squeezes my hand while I hug Meda tight with my other arm and she purrs like a crazy cat facing white water rapids. “You look like you need it.”
“You’re not mad?” I whisper.
“Not yet. You are going to tell me everything, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m definitely not mad. Also, this explains so much. I never really got the Oregon vibe off you, but I figured none of us ever really fully fit in anywhere. And for the record, I totally didn’t get the Hollywood vibe off you. I mean, how did you even survive that?”
I’m so relieved my throat clogs, and I make a production of digging my phone out of my pocket. “I have to text my parents,” I whisper.
I skip Mom and go straight for Dad, because despite the growling today, he’s always understood I need a little space to process that my cozy little life is about to be turned upside down more than she has.
Also, I tell him to go easy on Beck.
And to make sure the pig doesn’t eat my bees.
I really shouldn’t have abandoned my bees.
But I’ll be back to take care of them soon.
I just need a minute to figure out what I’m going to do next.
.
14
Beck
I’ve never been so grateful for the paparazzi as I am today, because the dumbass trying to sneak through Sarah’s bushes prompted the private security guards to demand we vacate the house while they secure all the surrounding blocks too.
Made for a good excuse to get away from the suspicious eyeball coming from Judson freaking Clarke that I may have aimed myself a time or seven at Ellie’s former boyfriends.
I don’t want to pass on this bit of news to Charlie and my team, but it’s going to get out eventually, so I need to.
I’m still sitting on it four hours later though, even after sitting through another video conference with my manager, marketing lead, and PR team lead about the importance of getting Sarah on board with this plan of letting me woo her, because fuck.
Just fuck.
No wonder she was so gun-shy about the publicity.
And I’ve just made it a million times worse for her.
Now, I’m hiding from the guilt by teaching Tucker the fine art of Mario Kart back in my penthouse.
“Wyatt’s household goods are arriving this week, Beck,” Ellie’s saying while I race through the cow pasture with Tucker and try not to think about the ultimatum I got from Vaughn when I got back to my place earlier: I’ll give you a week to prove continuing this foundation with you isn’t a mistake. But to be honest, Ryder, I’m not feeling real confident right now. “Are those photographers going to be sitting out there taking pictures of his furniture and boxes?”
Wyatt’s spent the last two years at an Air Force base in Georgia, but he just got orders to the military installation north of Copper Valley, and we’re all thrilled. He and Ellie will be up to their eyeballs in moving boxes this week.
“Only if they’re labeled with…” I pause and glance at the eight-year-old in the gaming chair next to me, who has ears like a bat. “Really juicy suggestions,” I finish.
“Have at least seven labeled toys,” Wyatt offers.
Ellie sighs.
“I know, I know.” I dodge that freaking monkey who’s always getting me with banana peels. “If I had to mistweet at someone, I should’ve gone for Levi. Or Cooper. Or Buckingham Palace. They follow me, you know.”
“For the train wreck,” Wyatt says. “Use your bullet, Tucker. You’ll beat Uncle Beck in two seconds flat.”
I hit a bomb in the road on purpose, and Tucker zooms past me with a shriek of joy.
The elevator dings, and on cue, even though I took the pans of fries and bacon and a slab of gouda from Sarah’s house—yes, I’m buying her new ones—I start salivating. “Pizza’s here!”
Ellie ruffles my hair before heading over to get the grub. “You eat like such a teenager.”
“Have to live on grass and pinto beans when I’m traveling. I’m eating all the shi—stuff I can cram in my belly while I’m here. Whoa, Tucker, dude, you just beat Luigi. Give it up, little man.”
I fist-bump him.
He grins with his big crooked front teeth, and shit.
Kid’s adorable.
“You like pepperoni?”
“I like anchovies.”
I wrinkle my brow. “You like—oh. Oh. Anchovies. Yeah, that pizza joint up in Shipwreck.” He has good taste. The cool little pirate-themed town out in the Blue Ridge Mountains makes some kick-ass pie in their pizza shop. I glance back at my sister, but she’s not carrying in pizza.
Nope.
She’s bringing in her neighbor.
Who’s not wearing shoes, or carrying her cat like the last time I saw her, but what she lacks in foot apparel and added fur, she’s making up for in a steely determination in her gaze. “We need to talk.”
“Sure.” I leap to my feet, because she basically holds my future in her hands. I wasn’t exaggerating about the people who’d have to find new jobs if RYDE and all my subsidiary lines go out of business because of this. Plus she could tell me to waddle down the street bawking like a chicken, and I’d probably do it. “Come on into my office.”
Wyatt chokes on a laugh.
Ellie rolls her eyes heavenward with an amused smile.
Or maybe exasperated, but I’m going with amused.
“You have an office, Uncle Beck?” Tucker asks.
“Of course,” I tell him. “It’s where all my serious work gets done.”
Sarah’s holding herself stiffly and studying all of us like we’re nutjobs. Which is probably mildly accurate. But she lets me lead her around the kitchen to the short hallway to my game room.
What?
I do my best thinking here.
There’s something totally Zen about chilling out with some old school Pac-Man or a foosball game.
I shut the door and prop myself on the pool table. “What’s up?”
“Is that Donkey Kong? Like the real original Donkey—no, wait. Stop. Never mind. Not why I’m here.”
“You like Donkey Kong?”
“Yes. I freaking—stop it. Stop distracting me, or I won’t get this out.” She pushes her brown wavy hair back from her forehead and blows out a short, heavy breath. “I’ll do it.”
“You’ll…?”
“Pretend that I’m falling in love with you. But only under my conditions, and you have to do all the hard work. And I want it in writing, naturally. And this isn’t about money. It’s about controlling the story and helping the giraffes. Understand?”
I should be relieved. This is exactly what I want.
Except I’m suddenly not sure she can pull it off. And getting caught in the lie would be worse than doing nothing at this point. “Where’d you go?”
Her nose wrinkles. “To Mackenzie’s house. Which I’m sure your security told you.”
“After the Hagrid thing.”
She freezes. And not just a little. She’s an ice princess locked in a glacier, complete with the message of I will bring about apocalypse by snowball if you EVER reference the Hagrid incident to me again shooting out her pores.
Probably I should’ve made sure she didn’t have her taser on her.
I shift against the pool table and wish I hadn’t played Wyatt last, because the dude puts everything away where it’s supposed to be. Every time.
So no pool sticks to defend myself or random balls to throw to distract her.
“They’re going to ask,” I point out. Sympathetically. With my hands over the family jewels, because I’m not always the sexy, charmingly lovable idiot I play on the runway and on shoots. Sometimes I have self-preservation skills. “You need an easy comeback to a hard question, I’m your guy. But I can’t help if you don’t let me.”
I wait while she fights her own breath, those dark chocolate eyes boring into me like her senior prom was my fault.
After this many years in the business, the gossip rags are all easy to ignore. I’m always going broke or being abducted by aliens or partying at geriatric strip clubs and having a love child with Bigfoot’s baby. You get used to it.
You accept it’s part of the package.
But Sarah didn’t ask for famous parents. Or to grow up under the microscope. I doubt she would’ve changed her name and moved all the way across the country if the Hagrid thing at her senior prom hadn’t happened. And until I fucked up and dragged her back into the spotlight, she’d found her way out of the gossip rags and the general constancy of being torn down for being unique in the Hollywood world that values the appearance of perfection above all else.
“Control the story,” I remind her. “You control the story, you take away their power.”
She blinks and looks away, then marches to my Donkey Kong game.
I follow and hit the button to start a game.
Honey. That’s the sweet smell she’s carrying with her.
Honey.
The game starts, and she exhales a shuddery breath while she takes Donkey Kong up the first level.
“Morocco,” she says quietly. “I went to Morocco after…after high school.”
“Marrakech?” I ask.
“Everywhere. Rabat, Fez, Casablanca, Marrakech. I took a bus over the mountains to the Sahara. I camped. I rode camels. I read. I perfected my French. I met the most amazing people and I ate pastries every day.”
Fuck, now my mouth’s watering again. I’ve been to Morocco a few times, but always on shoots where I had to look like a fucking million bucks. No pastries or cookies for me. The crew would go to a bakery and come back with a plain black coffee for me and piles of candy crack and cookies and honey-coated goodies that I couldn’t touch, because fuck if I’m gonna let them airbrush me. “Are they as good as they look?”
“I think my ass can still attest to how good they were. And the mint tea basically changed my life.”
“You had it with sugar?”
“You didn’t?”
“That’s it. I’m going back.” The next time I have a few weeks between shoots, anyway. Getting back in shape is always a pain in the ass.
I hear Tucker shriek the magic word—pizza!—and my stomach tries to climb out of my body to get to all the cheesy, doughy deliciousness, that I’m eating because stress burns extra calories.
And also because the mini-shoot I was supposed to do at a shelter in New York was canceled this week, which means I do have a couple weeks to be a little more flexible with my diet.
