Ashton Scott

“So where were you on Monday night?” She returns to her earlier question.

“I decided that with the mood I was in Monday, I was no good to anyone, so I just spent the night at home.” Stewing over what I’d learnt that day.

“You’re pursuing that Willow Street building, aren’t you?”

I ignore the disapproval in her voice. “It’s not for sale, but yes, I’m still pursuing it.”

“How strange…. Dad definitely said he was putting an offer in on the Willow Street property.”

“I’ll get to the bottom of it.”

“Oh, I have no doubt,” she mutters. “Now, the reason I actually called you…. Please tell me you’re still good for tomorrow afternoon. If you say no, I may just kill you. Or send little humans around to hang out with you. Either would be punishment enough.”

“You fail to recall my love for your little humans. You’ve nothing to worry about—I’ll be there.”

Her relief is clear in her voice. “Thank you, Ashton. And now I will leave you so I can refill my glass before thinking up ways to show my husband just what I think of his idea for me to take those lessons.”

She ends the call and I throw my phone down onto my bed. I pull my sweaty T-shirt over my head and dump it in the laundry basket before stripping out of the rest of my clothes. It’s just turned nine and I’m going to have a shower before dinner and then work for a few hours. A deal I’m trying to close in Los Angeles has hit a problem so I’ll be on the phone with them until the early hours of tomorrow morning.

As I head into the bathroom, my phone rings again.

Fuck.

I just want some peace and quiet.

I snatch it up. “Don’t tell me…. You’ve cut Malcolm’s dick off.”

A chuckle filters down the line. “No, I can’t say I have.”

I rake my fingers through my hair. “Thank Christ it’s you. I’ve just had Aly on the phone.”

“Ah, say no more, my friend.”

Jack Kingsley is my oldest friend. And any day I hear from him is a good day.

Sitting on the end of my bed, I rest my elbows on my knees and drop my head forward. “You’re awake early.” Jack lives in LA.

“Yeah, I can’t sleep. Too much shit taking over my mind. How the hell do you do it?” Exhaustion threads its way through his words, and I wonder what’s going on with him. I haven’t seen Jack for a good three months, which is unusual for us. Between my trips overseas and his, we normally manage to see each other every month.

“Do what?” I ask.

“Juggle all the balls in your court without going crazy or blocking it all out with an unhealthy addiction.”

Fuck.

Jack has a long history with drugs, and I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve worried he might not wake up in the morning.

“You forget, work is my unhealthy addiction.” I tread carefully; we’ve had more than one bad argument over his vice.

“Ah, yes, well, I’ve tried to take that addiction up and all I feel is ten-fucking-times worse.” He blows out a harsh breath. “I’m coming home. I’ve had enough.”

“For how long?”

“I’m done, Ashton. I’m coming home for good.”

“Jesus, Jack. What the fuck is going on over there?” As much as I want him back in Australia, I know it’s not where he needs to be. Every time he comes back here, he spirals further down the abyss of despair he lives most of his life in. Jack lives and breathes LA; he has no place living in Australia.

“Directors who are trying to kill my soul and actresses who use me on their way up and throw me away the minute I no longer serve a purpose. That’s what’s going on over here.” His words are sour and he spits them out as if they are causing him extreme discomfort.