He had tirelessly worked the system and was usually considered for most of the big roles in his age range. But now he was starting to compete with the next generation of wannabes, and he was fearful of slipping farther down the ladder.
So he accepted the role. He had no idea how much he would come to regret it.
The shooting of Tomorrow We Love was hampered by bad weather, resulting in numerous delays. Spirits were damp. Tempers were short.
There was tension between Ryan and the director, an inexperienced wunderkind who had caught the brass ring with a short film he wrote and directed that had been nominated for an Oscar. Their volatile disagreements made the set toxic.
But the production delays had encouraged a kind of friendship between Ryan and his personal driver, Bruce Stewart. On one of Ryan’s Saturdays off, Stewart promised him a mind-blowing experience, and visited Ryan’s hotel room with a stash of Shabu, the latest incarnation of the designer drug crystal meth.
Ryan was generally wary of taking drugs. He was afraid they might negatively impact his work. But the tension on the set had made him depressed and cranky, so he paid close attention when Stewart showed him how to fire up the Shabu.
At first Ryan felt nothing. He took another toke, and when it finally hit his system, it rocked him. He had never before experienced anything like it.
After Stewart left the hotel room, Ryan was alone. He became aware that the drug was producing in him euphoria unlike any he had ever known.
He was mostly an unhappy person, and he had been since childhood. Generally, he was angry and insecure, guarded and secretive. He was normally on edge and anxious.
But the drug relaxed him. He began to feel loose and easy. And he felt omnipotent. For some odd reason, a goofy grin lit up his face.
His mind was racing. He believed that nothing was beyond his reach. He felt emboldened in a way he could never have imagined. And he was unbelievably horny. He had a desperate need to get laid.
Marisol Hinton flitted across his mind, but he quickly dismissed the idea as too far-fetched. She was the star, after all. He considered his makeup person, then the script supervisor. Finally, the second assistant director came to mind. He rejected them all. He felt it would be unseemly for him to be banging members of the crew.
He thought again of Marisol. She had been nice to him. Flirty, even. On top of everything else, she was drop-dead gorgeous. And he was feeling so, so good.
They were staying at the same hotel. On the same floor, to be exact. He knew she was there alone. When they first met, she mentioned that she had been single for a while.
Ryan made his decision.
What the hell.
He wandered down the hall and knocked on her door.
“Who is it,” Marisol said.
“It’s Ryan.”
“Ryan?”
“Ryan Rooney.”
She opened the door.
She stood there, wrapped in a loosely tied hotel bathrobe. Her rich auburn hair cascaded around her neck and shoulders in wispy curls. She smelled of musk. Her eyes were wide, her expression open yet knowing.
“This is a surprise,” she said.
“May I come in?”
“Sure,” she said, standing back to allow him to enter. “What brings you to my door on such a gloomy day?”
“I don’t know. You were on my mind.”
“I was?”
He couldn’t stop looking at her mouth.
“Yes.”
“In what way?”
He suddenly took her in his arms and kissed her.
Surprised, she pulled away from him.
“What’s gotten into you, Ryan,” she said.
He stared at her, his intentions barely concealed.
She moved farther away.
“This is so unexpected,” she said. “Perhaps it’s not such a good idea, your being here. After all, we are working together.”
“We’re playing lovers,” he said.
“That’s just it,” she said. “We’re playing lovers.”
“I like playing your lover.”
He stepped closer and kissed her again.
She stepped back again.
“Maybe I’m not making myself clear,” she said.
“Maybe I’m not making myself clear,” Ryan said, closing in on her.
He touched her hair. He took a handful of it and pressed it to his nose and lips.
“You smell wonderful,” he said.
She didn’t say anything.
He gently slid his hand along her cheek, stopping at her lips, which he traced with his fingertips.
She sighed.
He moved his hand down her neck. He lowered his head and brushed his lips against it.
She didn’t stop him.
He untied her bathrobe and reached inside. She shuddered.
He removed the robe, put his arms around her, and pulled her into him. He kissed her again, softly at first, then with more urgency. His hands roamed her back.
She leaned away for a moment and looked in his eyes.
Then she took his hand and led him into her bedroom.
By the time he returned to his own room early the next morning, they were bound to each other.
5
When Jesse arrived at the station, he found reporters from the Paradise Daily News and the local TV station already camped out in front. They shouted questions at him as he walked by.
Jesse called to Molly as he headed for his office.
“Would you be so kind as to join me,” he said.
“You forgot the ‘Good morning’ part,” she said.
She stood up and followed him inside.
He was already seated at his desk, thumbing through his phone messages.
“Courtney Cassidy,” he said.
“You got that right,” Molly said. “Seems you busted Paradise’s most notable debutante.”
Jesse didn’t say anything.
“The DA’s office called. Marty Reagan is anxious to speak with you.”
“She’s been put in a cell?”
“And relishing every minute of it, too. For the last half-hour she’s been hollering, ‘Police brutality.’”
Jesse selected one of the messages, picked up the phone, and dialed the number.
“Jesse Stone for Mr. Reagan,” he said.
Marty Reagan picked up the call.
“What in hell have you done,” Reagan said.
“Who, me?”
“Yes, you. I’ve gotten calls from half the lawyers at Cone, Oakes. I gather she’s in custody.”
“‘She’ being . . . ?”
“Don’t fuck around, Jesse. The Cassidys are out for bear.”
“She ran a stop sign and nearly totaled two vehicles. She was texting at the time.”
“And that’s why you arrested her?”
“She did manage to break a few laws.”
“Her old man’s Richard Cassidy.”
“I don’t care if he’s Hopalong Cassidy. The driver of the car she hit still hasn’t regained consciousness.”
“So what do you suggest I do?”
“Make her the poster girl for a ‘No Texting While Driving’ campaign.”
“Which means?”
“Charge her to the full extent of the law. Alert the media. Request jail time and a hefty fine. Stir the pot. Seek the death penalty. You know, the usual.”
“You mean the usual for people you don’t particularly like.”
“Listen, Marty, we don’t even know whether the other driver is gonna survive. Things could turn out a whole lot worse for her if he doesn’t.”
“Don’t exaggerate. In the meantime, the girl’s seventeen. No priors. And she’s exceptionally well connected. Plus, I’m hearing that the guy’s condition isn’t that serious.”
“So?”
“So none of this is going to fly, Jesse. Richard Cassidy has enormous influence in this town.”
“You mean he throws his money around?”
“That, too. She’ll be out in less than an hour.”