Leah Ashton – Why Resist a Rebel? (страница 8)

The thick cloak of sleep was slowly lifting, and his eyes were adjusting.

It wasn’t completely dark in here. Light was managing to push through the heavy curtains that he’d checked and double checked were fully closed the night before.

He shivered, and only then did he register it was cold. He had a vague recollection of turning off the heater on the wall. Why? The nights were still cool.

Obviously it had made sense at the time.

Another bang.

The door. Someone was knocking on the door.

What time is it?

He rolled onto his side, reaching across the bed, knocking aside a small cardboard box and a blister pack so he could see the glowing green numbers of the clock on the bedside table. There were none. He didn’t remember turning it off, but it didn’t surprise him that he had.

He had set that alarm last night, though. And the alarm on his phone. He had an early call today. He’d been going to get up early to read through today’s rehearsal scenes.

Bang, bang, bang.

Dev swung his legs over the side of the bed in slow motion, then shoved himself to his feet. Three sluggish steps later, he discovered his mobile phone when he kicked it in the gloom, and it clattered against his closed bedroom door.

By feel he found the light switch on the wall, then rubbed his eyes against the sudden brightness.

His phone located, he picked it up to check the time. He pressed the button to illuminate the screen, but it took a while for his eyes to focus.

How long ago had he taken the sleepers?

He still felt drugged, still shrouded in the sleep that the tablets had finally delivered.

Seven thirty-two a.m. Why hadn’t his alarm gone off?

Bang, bang, BANG, BANG, BANG!

‘Mr Cooper? Are you awake?’

Graeme. Of course.

He twisted the old brass doorknob to his room, then padded up the wide hallway. Morning light streamed through the stained-glass panels of the front door around the over-inflated shape that was Dev’s warden.

He took his time, his gaze trained on his phone as he checked that his alarm had been set. It had. So it had gone off.

Presumably he’d then thrown it across the room, given where he’d found it.

It shouldn’t surprise him, but that wasn’t what he’d meant to do today. Last night he’d felt...different. Today was supposed to be different. Different from the past ninety-seven days.

How specific.

He smiled a humourless smile. Who knew his subconscious kept such meticulous records?

The thing was, today wasn’t the first day that was supposed to be different. But then, they never were.

Graeme was still hammering away at the door, but Dev didn’t bother to call out, to reassure him that his charge was in fact awake and not passed out in an alcoholic stupor or worse—whatever it was that Veronica was so sure that Dev was doing.

In some ways Dev wished he could apply a label to himself. Alcoholic. Drug addict.

But he was neither of those things.

What about his sleepers?

He dismissed the idea instantly. No. They were prescribed, and temporary.

Definitely temporary.

Hollywood wasn’t the shiny happy place people imagined. It was full of egos fuelled by intense insecurity. Stars that shone while simultaneously harbouring the intense fear that their light could be extinguished at any moment: at the mercy of their next role, of public opinion, of the whims of studio executives...always others.

So little control. It was no surprise that so many teetered over the edge. Fell into...something. It was just the label that changed.

But Dev had no label.

He just had...nothing.

He opened the door while Graeme was mid-knock. The other man started, then took a step back, clearing his throat.

‘We need to leave in five minutes, Mr Cooper.’

Dev scratched his belly and nodded. He left the door open as he turned and headed for the bathroom. Four minutes later he was showered and had dragged on a T-shirt, hoodie and jeans. He pulled the front door shut and locked it as Graeme hovered nearby—impatiently.

When he was growing up, his mum had done the same thing—although not as silently. She’d tap her foot as she waited for her youngest and most disorganised son. The other two boys generally already in the family Mercedes, all perfect and consistently smug. Hurry up, Dev! You’re making us late!

And just because he’d been that kind of kid, he’d taken his own sweet time.

This was why he didn’t like having drivers. Why he insisted on driving himself to and from set for every single one of his many movies. He was a grown adult with a driver’s licence—why the hell did he need a chauffeur? He was far from a child any more; he didn’t need to be directed and herded and hurried. He was a professional—always on time. Always reliable.

Until now.

Today was not the first time he’d slept through his alarm. Or, of more concern: he’d heard it, switched it off, and deliberately rolled over and gone back to sleep. More than once the action of even setting his alarm had felt impossible. Weirdly overwhelming.

Other nights sleep had never come. Where his thoughts had echoed so loudly in his skull that even drugs had no impact. And those days he’d watched time tick by, watched his call time slip by, and switched his phone to silent as his agent, or the producer, or even the director would call, and call and call...

That had got him fired from his last film. The contract was pulled on his next after whispers had begun to spread.

So here he was.

And although he hadn’t meant to—because of course he never meant to—it was happening again.

Without Graeme, he’d still be in bed, time passing. He hated that.

He sat in the back of the black four-wheel drive, staring unseeing out of the darkly tinted windows. Beside him was an insulated bag that Graeme said contained his breakfast, but he wasn’t hungry.

You’re not welcome here.

Closer to Unit Base, the bitumen road ended, and the car bounced amongst potholes on the wide gravel track. The irregular movements did nothing to jolt that memory. How long ago had it been? Ten years? No, longer. Fourteen. He’d been nineteen, home late—really late—after a night out with his mates.

He hadn’t been drunk, but alcohol had still buzzed through his bloodstream.

‘Where the hell have you been?’

His father stood at the very top of the staircase that rose majestically from the lobby of the Coopers’ sprawling Sydney upper-north-shore residence. His mum had left a lamp on for him, and the soft light threw shadows onto his dad’s pyjamas.

‘Out,’ he said. Grunted, really.

‘You have an exam tomorrow.’

Dev shrugged. He’d had no intention of turning up. He dumped his keys on a sideboard, and began to head past the stairs to the hallway that led to his bedroom, tossing his reply over his shoulder. ‘I’m not going to be an accountant, Dad.’

Patrick Cooper’s slippered feet were still heavy as they thumped down each carpeted step. Dev didn’t pause. He’d heard it all before.

He’d gone to uni to please his mum, only. But three semesters in, and he’d had it. He knew where his life was leading, and it didn’t involve a calculator and a navy-blue suit.

His father picked up his pace behind him, but Dev remained deliberately slow. Unworried. Casual.

He was unsurprised to feel the weight of his father’s hand on his shoulder. But when Dev kept walking, the way Patrick wrenched at his shoulder, spinning him around...yes, that shocked him.

His arm came up, his fingers forming into a fist. It was automatic, the result of the crowd he’d been hanging with, the occasional push and shove at a pub. He wouldn’t have hit his dad—he knew that. Knew that.

But his dad thought he would. He could see it in his eyes, that belief of what Dev was capable of. Or rather, the lack of belief.

Dev saw the fist coming. Maybe he didn’t have enough time to move, maybe he did—either way he stood stock still.