“Stop!” he shrieked, his bare feet finally gripping onto the grass and standing.
I laughed. “Fine, pretty boy. No more splashing.” I held up my hands in peace and smirked as he picked up the overturned chair and moved it to a safer place.
We were in the front yard of my house, in the shade of the big live oak; yet, even submerged in water, it was still hot. The Holdens had a pool, a big giant thing behind their house. With them in Tennessee, we could have swum there, but that just didn’t feel right. I had done it once or twice in the last six years but had looked over my shoulder the entire time, worried that the Holdens would magically transport two thousand miles and catch me. The kiddie pool worked just fine for me, and it didn’t come with a side of trepidation.
From the back porch, we heard Ben’s phone ring, loud and shrill in the quiet afternoon. He craned his neck back at it and sighed heavily.
“Just let it go,” I urged. “It’s Saturday. No emergencies to deal with.”
Like I knew he would, he hefted out of the chair and ran toward it.
Thank God he had.
CHAPTER 23
The first oddity, when the jet touched down on the dusty runway, was that there was no one there. Well, there was someone there. One lone airport employee who stood on the tarmac and gawked, his hands tucked in his front pocket, his mouth doing everything but offering to help with their bags. Granted, they didn’t have any bags. But this man didn’t know that. DeLuca stepped off the plane, shook the man’s hand, and introduced himself. Cole followed suit, the man’s eyes widening underneath a decade of dirt and sun. “You’re that movie star,” he said in surprise.
Cole nodded and flashed a smile. He couldn’t help it; it had become, since entering this business, so ingrained, so automatic, that it was as if he had no control of it. But there were no cameras here, no screaming crowds of fans, no need to display a megawatt smile to this country bumpkin. DeLuca looked at him strangely.
“So… ah… what are you guys doing in Quincy? Got engine trouble?” The man glanced at the gleaming aircraft, one that had barely had the runway clearance to land on their strip.
“No. Has my assistant not called?” Cole dug in his pocket for his phone. No texts from Justin. Strange. Normally, after this link of time, he’d have an itinerary, hotel confirmations, the name of his driver. He held up the phone. Two bars of service. Pressed the power button and hit restart. Damn Verizon.
“Uh, nobody’s called us,” the man said slowly, glancing toward the dimly lit building. Us. So maybe there’d been more than just him guiding their giant death trap safely to the ground. Reassuring.
“Has my car arrived?” A question he knew the answer to, even as it fell from his lips. Behind the man was a large gravel lot holding only two vehicles. Neither one looked capable of air conditioning, much less a private driver. Where was security? Justin had had hours of flight time to prepare. This shouldn’t have been difficult, and he should have, at the very least, texted Cole an update. So many mistakes, from an assistant who didn’t make mistakes, and Cole felt the first flick of worry uncoil in his stomach. He dialed Justin’s number and held the phone to his ear, DeLuca’s phone sounded, the man turning away.
It rang eleven times. After four, he was irritated. After seven, he grew worried. When the man’s voicemail finally picked up, he was panicked. He didn’t leave a voicemail, just hung up the phone and locked it. From behind him, DeLuca rejoined them, his big hand falling heavily on Cole’s shoulder. “Bad news,” the attorney said. “Your assistant has been in an accident. TMZ posted the news an hour ago. He’s alive, but pretty beat up.”
Another crack in a sinking ship. And Justin… Justin was his glue, the constant, the only friend who Cole could name with ease. He’s alive… but pretty beat up. Cole took a deep breath and ran his hands over his face. “Okay. Let’s head back.”
“No.” The order in the man’s voice caught him by surprise.
“I need to see him—in the hospital; he’s been with me for years,” Cole protested. Thirteen years, to be precise. Two more than the dead ringtones in his ear. A long time. Before Nadia, before the trio of Oscars, before his fame hit ridiculous heights. He needed to go to him. He should leave this dust-filled sauna and return to his city of clean hands, cool air and luxury. What kind of city had an airport like this?
Not city. He corrected himself. Town. That had been the draw of it all. A sleepy town, filled to the brim with millionaires. Come to think of it, they probably didn’t even have a spa. The tightness in his back grew worse.
“You’re not going anywhere. The LA hospital is going to be a zoo filled with paps waiting to see that pretty face of yours. You’ll turn the whole thing into a circus, and he’s not awake right now anyway, isn’t going to be able to talk to you for a while.”
“What happened?”
“He was the side effect of a car accident. Was on foot and got pinned between two cars.” DeLuca’s voice softened.
Cole looked away, his eyes running into the airport handler, who still stood there, his head tilted, catching every word. He let out a loud breath. DeLuca was right. Going to the hospital would be a disaster. He’d send flowers, maybe a strippergram, would have Justi—his brain hiccupped on the realization that his right hand was suddenly gone, the man who did everything, greased all joints, made all arrangements. Gone. In a hospital three thousand miles away with his focus on his own life, no longer on Cole’s. He staggered a little in place, DeLuca’s hand reaching out and gripping his shoulder, holding him up.