“I’m glad you are so familiar with it.” How long had she been planning this?
“We are petitioning that The Fortune Bottle is a joint asset.”
“But it’s not.” This was stupid. The Fortune Bottle was a book he had read, an option he had purchased from his accounts, the ten million in preproduction costs paid for out of those same accounts. No one would consider it a joint asset. Still, there was a twist in his stomach.
“I think it is. And Tony agrees with me.” Tony. So, in this division, she had claimed the attorney. Great.
The prenup had put joint assets in a category of its own, one where a mediation session would determine who gets what. The issue was that Nadia knew what a successful film brought in. They had sat in the actors’ chairs for so long, watching the big money go to the studios. Now, with The Fortune Bottle, everything would be different. A budget of sixty million, revenue of six hundred million… that was where the real money lay. And now, with his heart breaking before her, it was what she wanted to discuss. How quickly she had moved off her apology. Similar to how quickly she had moved off their marriage.
He stepped back, turning, twisting the doorknob, and moved into the light of the lobby, brightened tenfold by the snaps of a hundred paparazzi flashes.
He elbowed through the crowd, hotel security appearing and pushing him ahead. Nadia liked cameras, let her deal with them. When he got to the front, his car was waiting, and he ducked in, slamming the door behind him.
The leather shifter hot against his hand, he jerked into drive and onto the crowded street, his fingers quick on his phone. Damn Los Angeles traffic. He needed an open road, something to open up this car on, preferably one that ended in a cliff.
“Hey.”
“Justin, I need a divorce attorney. One with teeth. Find that guy who just got Michael Jordan’s ex everything.”
“Just a second.” He could hear the click of keys, the sound of productivity, and his stress lessened by a degree. Then there was the blare of a horn, Cole swerved to avoid an asshole, and felt the stress chalk back up. Maybe he’d go to Georgia early. Get the hell outta this town, get away from Nadia, away from everything. Talk to some people who, for once, didn’t have sticks up their asses.
Justin came back on the line. “Good news is, I found him. Bad news is, he lives out of the country and his site says he’s not taking on clients. Oh… Wait.” There was the furious sound of taps. “I see a Florida office number. Let me call them and see what I can do.”
“Get him. I don’t care how much money you throw at him, just do it. I want to talk to him today.”
“I’ll send you his contact now, and I’ll have him call you by the end of the day.”
“Let him know we’ll fly him out here. Tomorrow if possible.”
“I’ll try.” An odd response from a man who could do anything. “I’m sending the contact now, but don’t call the office ’til I speak to them.”
“Thanks.” He saw an opening to his turn and took it, the car jumping into action, the blare of a horn sounding as he wedged the exotic car in between two vehicles.
“Meet me at the house.” Cole ended the call and opened Justin’s text, seeing the contact card.
Brad DeLuca. DeLuca Law Firm.
The attorney. He saved the contact and then tossed the phone onto the passenger seat, swerving into the far lane and flooring the gas.
CHAPTER 17
Quincy sat in rocking chairs, on front porches freshly painted, and watched the train wreck of Codia occur. It was beautiful in its disaster, a full explosion decorated with high-def photos, a hundred a week, all spelling out Hollywood Doom in spectacular fashion. I munched on pecan brittle and flipped through the pages of STAR, saw the argument of Cole and Nadia in their driveway, her face striking in its anger, his hands strong and powerful as he spread them in the air and shouted. I poured pancake batter and heard, from the living room TV, the moment that Cole moved into a hotel and Nadia took full control of their ginormous home. I watched Cole’s attorney, a handsome man, his features tight in concentration, discuss the intricacies of intellectual property, while painting my toes on our worn living room sofa.
I couldn’t, from our tiny little cottage in the cotton field, understand why any woman would cheat on Cole Masten. How greedy could a woman be?
“They’re talking about pushing filming back.” Ben stood on my front porch, his shoulder slumped against the door frame, his cell phone hanging limply from his hand. It’d been ten days since the head crack heard ‘round Hollywood.
“What?” I swung the door open wider and waved him in.
“I had to drive all the way over here; my cell isn’t working. Thank God I checked email.”
“That storm last night,” I murmured, helping his dramatic self to a chair before he went full queen and collapsed. “Cell service is always hell after a storm.”
It wasn’t exactly the storm’s fault as much as it was Ned Beternum, who let his goats graze the field he leased to Verizon. Even though the cell giant had threatened legal action several times. Even though his goats loved to chew the juicy wires that magnetized the thing. Heavy rains typically flooded his west acreage, so Ned would move them into the higher field, giving us all weak service until Verizon flew someone in to fix things. We, as a town, didn’t really care. We’d survived without cell phones for thousands of years, didn’t much use them anyway. That was what home phones were for. And if you weren’t home, that was what answering machines were for. No need to fix a system that wasn’t broken. Who wanted to be available twenty-four hours a day?