Jason Page 3

  But right now, his biggest problem was Darien Simmons. Or rather, the sudden absence of Darien Simmons, damn him. The whole thing baffled him. He didn’t get that kind of lust. He much preferred women who were equal. Who had lived a little, who knew their own minds. He was attracted to women who gave as good as they got. And if she didn’t, he quickly grew bored. His history of dating fame seekers and actress wannabes had left him currently unattached. It seemed like he never found women he was attracted to who were attracted to him, exactly. They were more attracted to what he could do for them. Maybe he was just going about it all wrong. He didn’t really know—he was always in the throes of a project, trying to get something off the ground, and never had time to think about it.

  With the exception of Mallory. Now, there was a woman who could give as good as she got, plus organize your shooting schedule while she was at it. He didn’t know if she was certified OCD or what, but her ability to organize down to the last paperclip kept production humming along like a fine machine. He didn’t know how he would have managed this long without her. He also didn’t know how he’d gone this far in his life without knowing he loved the smell of jasmine until he’d detected it on her.

  Mallory was going to flip out when she heard the news about Darien. Because Mallory was also a little straightlaced. He was pretty sure she would not abide lapses in moral character.

  Jason’s first thought was that he’d have to fly back to L.A. to work through this debacle. But the more he thought about it, he decided that was not a great idea. There was too much to do in King Harbor to get the production up and going, and any delay would only draw attention to the role Darien had had here. Not to mention the increase to production costs. So he’d spent the better part of last night on the phone with publicity and lawyers and Netflix, trying to keep a lid on this boiling pot. Darien was looking for some air cover. Jason was not going to be the one to give it to him. Netflix was drafting a statement today announcing the severing of their relationship with Darien Simmons.

  And now Jason had a casting crisis.

  He started running again. He had to get someone on board as quickly as possible and he was going to need help. Which meant Mallory was going to have to come to Maine—it was the most expedient solution. She could work here for a few days until the focus on Darien’s behavior moved away from Bad Intentions, and they had a new star attached.

  He suddenly stopped running and looked at the ocean below him. The thin line of pink on the horizon had turned gold. The sun was about to appear. He dug his phone from his pocket and called Mallory.

  Mallory definitely wasn’t thinking about how sexy Jason was when she was jolted out of a dead sleep by the insistent foghorn ringtone she’d assigned to him. It disoriented her—it was dark, and she wasn’t sure where her phone was, or where she was for that matter, and fumbled around for it while she tried to focus.

  She was exhausted. With Jason on location in Maine, and the cast and crew on hiatus, Mallory had been completely engrossed in making her latest short film. Meaning, when she wasn’t relaying Jason’s instructions to someone else on hiatus, generally barked out at her because he was always in a hurry, she was filming.

  The man could not seem to put down his phone. It was all incredibly stressful, particularly because no one in Hollywood saw her as anything more than Jason’s mouthpiece. She had no authority.

  It was very annoying to technically be on vacation and have one’s boss always calling, which she had pointed out to Jason.

  “I see your point,” he said. “I’ll pay you double time this week.”

  Well of course that had made her perk up, but still. It was the principle of the thing. And she really wanted to focus on her new short film. A small new film company, Morning Moonlight, had seen her last entry in a dramatic short film contest, and had brought her in for an interview. A few days later, they had extended her an offer to join their team.

  Mallory was thrilled. She told them she needed a couple of weeks to think about it, but really what she wanted was to finish her current project and show that to them, too. She had lined up an ex-boyfriend to do the camera work and Inez and another mutual friend were the cast. She had only three more scenes to shoot, and the plan was to get them shot before Jason came back. Because when he came back, he’d be crazed with the production of season two and would not leave her alone—she’d learned that the hard way through season one production. Jason thought nothing of calling her at all hours during the production, and in anticipation of that, Mallory had had to cajole her friends into shooting all week, sometimes into the night.

  The phone stopped ringing. Thank God.

  Mallory fumbled around for her glasses and looked at the clock. It was three thirty in the morning. Three thirty in the God bless morning. She rolled onto her back and heard a crackling. She reached beneath her and pulled out a bag of potato chips. Oh right—she’d been stuffing them in out of sheer hunger because she hadn’t had time for dinner. Apparently, she’d fallen asleep with them.

  Where was her phone, anyway?

  She swept her hand over her bed. Something under the sheet jabbed her hand. She groped for the offending thing and pulled out her notebook. The spiral end had snagged her. Mallory remembered now—she’d fallen asleep watching an episode of Bad Intentions and making notes.

  The first season had just started airing. Variety said it was an intriguing update to the standard crime drama. Vulture said it was gritty noir, but offered nothing new. It had a 90 percent rating on Rotten Tomatoes. It was a good show, there was no doubt. But Mallory thought it could be even better. She thought it could be groundbreaking. She had studied all the detective dramas she could get her hands on and she knew what Jason had developed with this one could be so good. So she’d been watching the episodes, making meticulous notes about things she would have done differently had she directed them. Her plan was to get a few minutes of Jason’s time when he came back to present her ideas. Her goal was to get him to agree to let her direct at least a couple of scenes this season.

  All of this was easier said than done. The director, Mr. Cass Farenthold of feature film fame and two Oscar nominations under his belt, did not appreciate feedback. He walked around the set as if he was doing them all a favor by showing up. But from Mallory’s vantage point, he didn’t care enough about Bad Intentions. During the filming of the last couple of episodes of season one, she’d felt like the series was doing well because of the dedication of the veteran actors, but that Cass was phoning it in. She suspected she knew why, too. An assistant to an executive at Sony Pictures had told her over drinks one night that Sony and Cass had been in discussions for a first look deal, but that Cass had a contract issue with Jason. Meaning, he had to be released from his contract with Jason to pursue the other deal.

  She tossed the notebook onto the floor and closed her eyes, drifting back to sleep. But her heart suffered another painful start when her phone began to ring again. She really had to change that ringtone. She spread her hands around her bed, looking for the phone, and found it under a pillow.

  “Hello?” she croaked.

  “Mallory!” Jason said. He sounded breathless, like he was panicked.

  “What? Oh my God has something happened? Is it your parents? Did something happen to your parents?”

  “My parents? Why would you say that? My parents are dead, Mallory,” Jason said in a voice that was far too calm to relay such news at this late hour.

  “Oh my God! How?”

  “A plane crash when I was twelve,” he said matter-of-factly. “You don’t know that?”

  How would she know that? It’s not like they sat around the break room talking about their childhoods. “Then what has happened?”

  “Everyone is fine,” he said. “Why are you so hoarse?”

  She was going to kill him. “It’s three thirty in the morning, Jason, that’s why. Who calls at this time in the morning? You scared the crap out of me!”

  “Three thirty in
the—oh, man, sorry, Mallory,” Jason said jovially. “Brain freeze. I forgot you were on the West Coast. I’ve been so caught up in things going on here.”

  He forgot? He could be so insensitive at times. “Well it is, and if you don’t mind, I’m going back to sleep.”

  “I didn’t think,” he said, talking over her. “I’m out for a run. Beautiful morning here.”

  “I’m so happy that you’re enjoying it,” she snapped. “I was enjoying my sleep.”

  “Just makes you feel alive,” he continued, as if he couldn’t hear her. “You know, I grew up here, but I forget how great…”

  She didn’t hear what else he said. She had to yawn. And then she sneezed. She rubbed her nose. “Jason,” she tried.

  “Did you get that?” he asked.

  Was he still talking? She was so tired. “Get what?” she asked through another yawn.

  “I need you to come to Maine.”

  Mallory blinked. She snorted. “For a moment there, I thought you said I should come to Maine.”

  “I did say that. You really, like, need to get a cup of coffee or something, Mal. You sound like a truck driver who hasn’t slept in a few days.”

  “I haven’t slept, Jason. I’ve been super busy.” She pushed herself up to sitting. All she could think about in that moment was her short film. She was so close to being done. “I can’t come to Maine.”

  “Why not? Look, it’s not a big deal. You fly out as soon as you can, you’re back in a couple of days.”

  “No!” Mallory insisted, and got out of bed. She didn’t know where she was headed, she just felt the need to be standing. “You can’t call me at three thirty in the morning and tell me to get on a plane if there isn’t an emerg— Ouch! Crap! I think I broke my toe.”

  “Better watch where you’re going.”

  “I really, really want to kick you right now,” she said. “It’s dark.”

  “So what’s the problem with coming to Maine for a couple of days?” he asked, glossing over the possibility of a broken toe. “Three, max.”

  Mallory groaned. Her toe, it seemed, was not broken. Just as annoyed as she was. “But why? There is so much to do here.”

  “Here’s why, Mallory. Keep this on the down-low, but we have a crisis brewing. Darien has been accused of sexual assault with one of the production interns. It will hit the news tomorrow.”

  “What?” Mallory shouted, shocked. “Oh my God! Oh my God.” Darien Simmons was a well-regarded actor. He was tall and stately and charming and the gray around the temples made him sexy. Mallory was shocked, but maybe she shouldn’t be—this seemed to keep happening in this town. “Who? What did he say?”

  “Some eighteen-year-old intern is all I know. He said there was no truth to it. That she came on to him.”

  Mallory snorted her opinion of that.

  “I fired him.”

  Mallory gasped. “You fired him?”

  “In a minute,” Jason said emphatically. “Forget the kind of attention it’s going to bring the show, which, let me tell you, no one is going to like, and everyone, from our investors on down to the grip, are going to have an opinion about, but personally, I have a real issue with men assaulting women and I don’t want it anywhere near my show. We need to replace him and fast. The casting director is putting together some headshots. I’m going to have to make a quick decision.”

  Mallory was still absorbing the news that Darien had been fired. That he’d abused a production intern, probably some girl who had stars in her eyes and was hoping to get a foot in the door. “But what…how—”

  “See? Lots of questions. And I have a lot of phone calls to make. I need you to come, Mallory. Hire a plane.”

  “No! Wait, Jason, let me think. We can’t just hire a plane—”

  “I’ll find room in the budget.”

  “It’s not that.” There was plenty of money in the budget for emergencies, she’d made sure of it. “It’s the emissions! We’ve talked about this—”

  “Okay, you can get the middle seat in coach on a commercial flight, although I don’t see how that fixes the emissions problem or whatever it is you’re worried about. Is that what you want me to do?”

  Mallory squeezed her eyes shut. “That’s hardly a choice.”

  “I’ll call my guy and send a plane. Be ready to go in about, oh, I don’t know, about six hours.”

  “Jason!” She shoved her fingers through her hair trying to think. “I have plans. That’s the other thing we talked about, remember? That you can’t just assume I’m available at all hours of the day and night.”

  “I will make sure you’re well compensated for this, Mallory. I’ll let you write your own check.”

  She rolled her eyes. “It doesn’t actually work that way. It never works that way.”

  “I’ll make it up to you. It’s just a few days, not a lifestyle change. So pull on those sweatpants you like for weekend work hours and be ready to go.”

  Sweatpants! “It’s called athleisure wear and it’s really in right now—”

  He was panting again. He was talking and running, she realized. That was so like Jason, doing fourteen things at once. “You’ll be flying into King Harbor, Maine. Text me when you book the plane and let me know when you’re taking off. I’ll have someone to pick you up.”

  “I thought you said you were going to call your guy.”

  “It’s easier if I text you his name and you book it. Actually, book a ride while you’re at it. King Harbor Limos.”

  “I don’t—how am I supposed to…” She shook her head. “This is the worst thing you’ve ever done to me, Jason.”

  “The worst?” He laughed. “Think of it as an adventure! Okay, so I really have to go. Text me and let me know what the plans are.”

  Mallory hated him in that dark, middle-of-the-night moment. She was going to quit this stupid job and take the one at Morning Moonlight and he could find someone else to find his stupid phone.

  “You can’t quit,” he said, as if he was reading her mind.

  “Are you still there?” she demanded, a little surprised he hadn’t hung up.

  “Remember the contract you signed? You have to give me at least two weeks’ notice. So listen, it’s a six-hour flight. You can do some work on the plane if you need to.”

  “Wow, thank you,” she said.

  “Or, you can sleep on the plane. Whatever, just get here. I really have to go, Mal. We’re in for a real shit storm today. See you soon.” The line went dead.

  Mallory tossed the phone on the bed. She covered her face with her hands. She could hear Inez’s voice in her head. “He can’t keep anyone.”

  Yeah, well, this was why. But she didn’t have the time or the energy to examine it right now. She had to get ready to fly to Maine where she couldn’t promise herself that she wouldn’t punch Jason right in the kisser.

  Damn Jason Blackthorne. Damn him for being so ridiculously handsome, for being so ridiculously demanding. Damn him for lighting that fire because she was actually going to get on that plane.

  But this time, she wasn’t going to let his demand just go, swept up under the rug of more demands and impossible expectations. She didn’t know how just yet, but she thought now would be a good time to tell him about that other job offer.

  Darien Simmons. Really?

  CHAPTER THREE

  JASON FELT bad about waking Mallory up. Sometimes, he was so in his own head that he forgot things that were pretty important. Like time zones. Mallory was the one who always remembered things like time zones. Mallory remembered everything. She never made mistakes like that and she made damn sure he didn’t, either.

  He looked at the ocean again. The sun was casting gold across the surface. For Jason, this was the best part of the day, before people began moving and the earth began turning and phones began pinging and emails began flooding his inbox. This was the time of day he cleared his mind and made sense of the millions of thoughts that pinged around his head. A television
production was extremely hard work. He could not have guessed how hard until he’d done it. He’d imagined it, dreamed of it, but until he was actually at the helm of the trenches, he couldn’t conceive it.

  Before the crisis with Darien, he’d been thinking about the first two scripts for season two of Bad Intentions. It was early yet, and the reviews were just beginning to come in for the first season, and yes, they were good, but Jason had seen a review in The Atlantic for the first episode, and it wasn’t good. What had it said? Something like, Bad Intentions, the creation of Executive Producer Jason Blackthorne, and highly decorated director Cass Farenthold, misses the mark. What could have been a unique idea in a crowded field of crime dramas is hampered by an execution that is leaden and contrived. The stellar cast saves it from disaster.

  Jason knew better than to let reviews sink into his psyche. But the thing was, he’d had a similar reaction when he’d watched the first episode on television at a viewing party with some of the cast and crew. It had been a few months since he’d seen the final edited version, and he had to admit, with that time and distance, he noticed the heavy hand with the camera angles, the clunky transitions, the bad lighting. Neil had fired the gaffer after the first episode aired. He’d brought in a new guy who was twice as expensive. “You gotta have the right kind of lighting,” he’d assured Jason, but Jason still worried.

  Cass said he didn’t see what the concern was. He’d remarked as much as he’d tucked into an enormous slab of beef. “Looks good to me,” he’d said with a dismissive shrug.

  The funny thing was, Mallory had mentioned the lighting when they were filming. Jason could clearly remember it, her standing beside him with her ever-present binder and muttering, “This is not going to look right on the small screen.”