Between Friends (Between the Raindrops #3) Read online

  She sighs, opens her phone to her photos and hands it to me. “I’ve only got a few.”

  I scroll through them, deleting each one after viewing it. The first six are at the club, one in the car, and the last one in the condo. The last one is a picture of me naked on the bed and I appear to be posing for the shot. Delete.

  “Oh. You didn’t have to send the last one to the recycling bin. It’s not as if I would post it. It was just for me.”

  Her words remind me, and I delete everything in her recycling bin. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Tina, but after last night, I don’t.” I stand up and toss the phone next to her on the bed. Then I find my phone and since I don’t want to ask her for a ride back to Malibu, I shoot my roommate a text.

  Me: Any chance you can pick me up from Tara’s ASAP?

  Nak: Sure. It’s not as if I have a life.

  Me: Thanks.

  As I see it, Nak owes me. He was supposed to be my wingman last night. If he had been doing his job, I never would have ended up here. Maybe he can reconstruct my night for me on the drive home. Tina gets up and walks past me as I stuff my phone back into my pocket.

  “You can shower if you want. I’m going to make us some breakfast. Any preference?” she says on her way to the kitchen. She’s slipped on panties and a bra, but that’s all she’s wearing. I’m surprised she put anything on.

  “Anything with protein,” I say. Protein helps with hangovers and the longer I’m vertical, the more my head feels like a truck ran over it and then backed up and ran over it again. I’m not taking a shower. She probably has cameras staged in her bathroom. I find my shirt and slip it on before collapsing on the couch.

  “Hung over?” Tina calls from the kitchen. “It doesn’t surprise me. You were crazy last night. I’ve never seen you like that.”

  Crazy. That would explain why I woke up in Tina’s bed. We eat breakfast with minimal talking because my head is pounding and talking hurts. Then, after breakfast, I rest on the couch until Nak’s text notifies me of his arrival. “I’ll see you at the club,” I say, opening the door. I’m out of there and never going back.

  I slouch in the passenger seat of Daniel Nackerson’s car, not because I’m hiding from the paparazzi, but because the sun seems to be breaking through the L.A. smog today and it hurts my head almost as much as the noise blaring from the speakers. My hand swings over without a second thought, and eliminates the noise with a touch.

  “Rough night?” Nak asks.

  “You could say that.”

  “You didn’t drink that much, not that I saw. What happened?”

  “You tell me.”

  “You were crazy. By the way you were acting, I’d say probably Ecstasy or something in that genre.”

  “Damn. Now that you say it out loud, it makes sense. This is exactly what it feels like. I’m dehydrated from the alcohol, but yet surprisingly not as pissed off as I should be at that little bitch.”

  “I take it you didn’t knowingly ingest it.”

  I glare at him. “Ya think? I’ve been clean for eleven months only to be derailed by a horny blond pixie.”

  “I thought Tara knew about your stent in rehab.”

  “She does. Except it was Tina at the club last night, not Tara. She probably didn’t want to leave anything to chance.”

  “That explains a lot. I can’t tell them apart unless they’re standing next to each other.”

  “Apparently, I can’t either,” I say with a groan. “And, yes, their bodies are identical, right down to their nipple piercings, in case you were wondering.”

  “I don’t understand you. You could have them both and you just walk away.”

  “I have had them both,” I say closing my eyes and resting my head against the cool glass of the window.

  “I mean at the same time. What is wrong with you?”

  “I don’t do threesomes and I don’t sleep with sisters of friends. Not anymore. I thought Tara and I were friends and I didn’t want to mess up what we had.”

  “It almost sounds like a relationship.”

  “Nope. I don’t do relationships.”

  “No, Ever since Kelsey moved out, you just rotate through a string of hookups. You let a new one into the rotation once in a while and move someone else out, but it’s as if you’re in a relationship with thirty different women at the same time. You’re a polygamist.”

  I laugh, still keeping my eyes closed. “They don’t seem to mind.”

  “Or they don’t tell you. Because what happens to a girl who wants more?”

  “I move her out of the rotation. And it’s not thirty. It’s more like ten.” I sit up and glare at him. “What about you? When was the last time you got laid? You’ve slept with exactly two women since you and Leslie broke up, with no repeats. That’s two times in thirteen months. You’re a good-looking guy. Do you not like sex?”

  “I like sex just fine, thank you. What I don’t like is screwing for the sake of screwing. If I want a workout, I can go to the gym. Girls who have brains…”

  “You mean like Leslie?” I interrupt him with my taunt.

  “Yes, like Leslie. Women who actually can think for themselves—ones who can hold an intelligent conversation with you and challenge you are worth waiting for, worth fighting to keep. If you get inside the mind of a woman like that, it brings sex to a whole other level.”

  “If I ever meet someone worthy of your memory of Leslie, I will try out your theory and get to know her before I get in her pants. Better yet, I could just invite Leslie into the rotation.”

  “She’s too smart to get caught in your web. Besides, she’s like a sister to Jonathan Williams, and I thought you didn’t sleep with friends’ sisters.”

  “You’re right. Leslie’s out.” I have five basic rules when it comes to sleeping with women. Most of them are just common sense, like one, don’t sleep with girls who live their lives in social media. You will always get burned in the press. The internet is forever. That one is a no-brainer.

  Two, don’t sleep with sisters of friends. This one I had to learn the hard way. Yes, I slept with a friend’s sister. It was a douche move, but I was young and stupid, and now at the age of twenty-four, I’ve matured to the point that I can control my desires.

  Three, only date blondes because brunettes are batshit crazy. I could talk for days about my experience with this. Trust me.

  Four, no threesomes.

  Five, don’t sleep with the people you work with. This probably is the hardest rule to follow as an actor. Normally, that’s what actors do, we sleep with our co-stars. We’re trapped with them for long hours on set. Long, boring hours of waiting for nothing to happen. They may be the only people you see for days or weeks. It can be hard to avoid hooking up with them. And as an actor, if you get deep enough into your character’s head, you may want to have sex with the co-star that your character is having sex with. I’m not immune to the perils of method acting. I’ve started love scenes on camera and finished them off backstage or in my dressing room.

  Maybe I should say, don’t bring your work home with you and only hook up with co-stars, no crew. On my show, a co-star may only be around for an episode or two, and honestly, my character sleeps with most of the women on the show so it is difficult to eliminate all of them and still make Ashton Post believable. The crew is a different story though. They stick with you season after season. Never break this rule with a member of the crew. I learned this one the hard way, too.

  My phone buzzes plucking me out of my eerily philosophical thoughts. I hate Ecstasy hangovers. It’s my dad. I don’t really want to answer it, but Jim never just calls to chat, so I’d better.

  “Dad,” I say because he thinks greetings are a waste of time. But how does someone answer a phone without a greeting?

  “Have you talked to Seth lately? Blair Halbrook’s daughter saw him at a house party, baked out of his mind and now your mother has it in her head that he’s got a drug problem. Did you know about this?�
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  “I’m not my brother’s keeper, Dad. I haven’t talked to him in weeks.”

  “Well, connect with him and see what’s going on. Your mother’s not going to let it go until she has answers.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Do more than try, Liam. Your brother idolizes you.” Maybe he did when he was twelve, but not at seventeen.

  “Okay. I’ll let you know.”

  The call ends and I glance at Nak, who gives me a sympathetic look.

  “Trouble on the home front?”

  “Yeah. Jim and Natalie want me to take Seth out for ice cream and find out what drugs he’s doing, because, God knows, I’m the expert on drug addiction.”

  “They’re never going to let that die, are they?”

  “Probably not.” I lean my head against the window again. I don’t want to talk anymore.

  I get where my mom is coming from. She’s the crowned head in foundation fundraising, and most of her causes involve suicide prevention and rehab facilities. I’m sure it is embarrassing for her to have one son go through rehab and another who is well on his way to needing treatment. Yes, I know a little bit more than I let on about my brother’s drug problem. The last time I talked to him he assured me he was only using socially and only on occasion. What kid doesn’t do a little experimenting? But, if he was at a party with Blair Halbrook’s daughter, he should have known better than to be using. Mrs. Halbrook donated a million dollars to one of Mom’s charities after her son died of a drug overdose.

  Seth and I aren’t completely responsible for Mom’s neurosis about addiction and suicide. She was obsessed long before we were born. Her father takes most of the blame for that. He committed suicide after his cocaine addiction and the burst of the housing bubble of the late ’80s drained every penny he had. I never knew the man, but apparently Seth and I have inherited his addiction gene.

  My problem started about a year ago when I got in a motorcycle accident. Some asshole used me for target practice with his car and I ended up thrown across two lanes on the 405. My leg shattered under the weight of my bike and the pain was unbearable. Opiates helped. My pain was real and the drugs were always prescription, but the funny thing about addiction is that it doesn’t matter if what you crave is legal or not, it’s still addiction. When I lost control of the pills, I checked myself into rehab.

  If I had been able to disappear for a month without telling my parents where I was, I would have. Because now, in their eyes, I will forever be an addict on the edge of a relapse. It doesn’t matter that I recognized the problem and worked to fix it on my own—my parents still act as if my coke-addicted grandfather and I spring from the same mold. My brother, on the other hand, still has the ability to avoid this parental judgement, and that’s why I’ve been encouraging him to fix the problem without rehab. So far that hasn’t happened and by the sounds of it, it won’t.

  Chapter 3

  Megan

  I’M SITTING IN Peterson’s kitchen and he’s toasting me a bagel as I sip my coffee. I tuck my feet up on the stool’s footrest to prevent them from sticking to the floor and hold the mug in my hand so I don’t have to touch the disgusting surface in front of me. The room smells of beer and gym socks and the only thing keeping me planted is the promise of food. It’s almost noon and I haven’t had anything to eat.

  “You and your brothers really need to hire someone to clean this place. Someone full-time to make it, you know, livable.”

  Peterson wets a paper towel and wipes the counter directly in front of me. He laughs as he tosses the now red-stained rag into the trash and then sets my buttered bagel’s paper plate on the almost clean surface.

  “Why would we want to erase all these memories?”

  “I’m pretty sure your frat brothers don’t remember any of this.” I wave my hand around the room and shudder. Bottles of beer pile every surface. Some lay sideways with their half-dried contents spewed out preventing them from rolling off the counter. Used red plastic cups stack in towers like garbage cans weren’t invented and the only place to go with them was up. Pizza boxes spill onto the floor and I wonder if a girl was using them as stepping stones so she wouldn’t get stuck to the linoleum.

  Dylan Peterson sits down on the stool next to me with a piece of cold pizza in his hand. I pray he got it out of the refrigerator, but I don’t want to ask. I avoid looking at it. He is usually pretty hygienic, but I’ve seen guys eat food out of the garbage, so nothing would surprise me.

  “Cleanup starts at one and you’re welcome to stay and help.” His eyes meet mine and I’m pretty sure he knows what I’m thinking. “I can take you home, but I can’t be late for clean up or I get fined fifty bucks.”

  “That’s fine. I’ve got plans this afternoon anyway.”

  I told my dad I would stop by the marina’s office and review some of the accounts. He thinks the accountant is embezzling, but he can’t find any proof. Even though it is not my favorite place, I don’t want anyone stealing from my family’s business. We finish up our food and head back to his room to change. His room is much cleaner than the rest of the house. He keeps the door locked during parties so it doesn’t get trashed. He said he once walked in on two total strangers going at it wrapped only in his sheets. That’s when he realized he needed to lock the door.

  Peterson is lying on his bed watching me change out of his giant T-shirt into the clothes I was wearing last night when my phone goes off. It’s not a ringtone I recognize, but my phone is so old that it sometimes changes a person’s ringtone for no apparent reason, so it could be anyone. I’m frantically hooking together my bra, hoping I don’t miss the call, when Peterson bends over the edge of the bed, plucks it off the floor, and answers it.

  “Hello.” He looks over to me and his eyes sweep my half naked body. “Yeah. She’s right here, but you’re going to have to hold on a second. She’s getting dressed.”

  Oh my god. I’m going to kill him. It’s probably my dad. I slip my jersey over my head and reach for the phone. I cover the mic with my hand and mouth, “Who is it?”

  He shrugs and lies back on the bed as I glare at him.

  “Hello,” I say, praying it’s one of my roommates. The voice on the other end is familiar, but not what I expect.

  “I sent a couple of texts wondering if we could meet for lunch. You available?”

  “Chase, I’m busy right now. Maybe some other time.”

  Peterson scoots to the end of the bed, pulls me onto his lap, and says, “Tell him to take a hike. You’re seeing someone.” His voice booms through the room and I’m sure his words are meant for Chase.

  “I just want to reconnect, Meg. I’m not trying to mess up anything you’ve got going,” says Chase with a hint of disappointment.

  I’m pissed that Peterson has taken this moment to make his claim on me and just a little relieved that his claim may help me with the crumbling wall I use to keep Chase away. I stand up and pull on my tight jeans as I say, “I’ll talk to you later. I’ve got to go.” I end the call not waiting for his response and shove my phone in my back pocket before I snap my fly and zip.

  “Who was that?” Peterson asks, acting innocent as if he’s oblivious to what he just did, and then lies back on his pillows again.

  “Just an old friend—no big deal.” I scoop up my earrings off the night-stand and catch the confused expression on Peterson’s face.

  “We are seeing each other, right?” he asks with narrowed brown eyes.

  “Yeah.” I crawl across the bed and plant a kiss on his cheek. I hope he’s not getting attached. I like him. I try to reassure him without defining our relationship any further. Maybe he’s acting all Neanderthal because I was half naked when Chase called.

  “I just never know what’s going on in that head of yours,” he says wrapping his big arm around me and pulling me down next to him. “Was that Chase the drug dealer or some new guy?”

  I didn’t even know he remembered Chase’s name, let alone cared. “The drug
dealer,” I say. “He was just a user, not a dealer, though.”

  “Why is he calling you?”

  “Are you jealous?”

  “You sounded pissed. Is he harassing you? Because I’ll pummel him if you want me to.”

  I wish I had someone to pummel him three and a half years ago. I smile at that thought and say, “Not today, but I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “Just stay away from him, Megan, once an addict, always an addict.”

  “How do you know about him, anyway? Have I been having night terrors and talking in my sleep?”

  “You’ve mentioned him. I do listen to you.”

  “Peterson, you act like you actually care about me.”

  He looks down with an expression I can’t read and rolls off the bed. “Come on, I’ve gotta get you home.” He holds his arm out to help me up and I take it. Then he yanks me into his arms and kisses me. It’s unexpected and better than I’m used to with him. It’s not that he’s a bad kisser, but his kisses don’t really spark anything in me.

  ***

  The old rental house is quiet when Peterson drops me off. I shower and change clothes, slipping on a clean pair of skinny jeans and a sweater. I’m pulling on my boots and zipping them up when I hear someone come in the front door. It’s my housemate Jessica and she’s alone. Miracles do happen. Jeff is always with her. It seems like he lives here. He does live here.

  “Where’s your ball and chain?” I call to her as she passes my room.

  “He’s playing murder with the guys today.” She stops in my doorway, her hands full of shopping bags.

  “Murder?” I ask.

  She laughs and drops her bags in the hall before joining me on my bed. “He’s playing paintball with twenty guys at some farm near Forest Lake, so I went shopping. I can’t shop with him, ever, and I needed a new dress for my dad’s engagement party.”

  “Man games? You let him play with the other boys?”

  “I know you think it’s funny, but we’re not always together.”

  “Yes you are. You just don’t notice it because you always have each other.”