Forever: A Seaside Novella (BOOK 3.5) by Rachel Van Dyken Page A

flared, I spent the better part of my day getting lectured on why it isn’t socially acceptable to wear leather pants to a funeral. Shit, call it a culture barrier. I mean, the guy that died was a rocker. I thought I was being respectful. Then again, it was probably the Megadeath shirt I wore along with the leather pants that sealed the deal for me.
    Maybe I should go back to England on an extended holiday. Anything to get rid of Brett.
    So what? People thought I was a man-whore? At least I wasn’t some drug addicted mad man running up and down Sunset Boulevard with my trousers falling around my ankles. I mean, really, there were worse things in life.
    “We done?” I asked coolly.
    “Not by a long shot.” Brett’s nostrils flared as he pointed his finger in my direction. “You’ve gotta get your shit together, Jaymeson. I’m not kidding this time.”
    “My shit is just fine. Thank you,” I retorted with a mocking glare.
    He cursed and ran his fingers through his hair.
    I stood and stretched. “Look, I’m the least of your worries. You’ve got celebrities shooting up heroin and snorting cocaine and slapping tattoos on their asses that have misspelled words. Compare me to them and I’m…” I exhaled. “Mother Theresa!”
    Wow, good one. I smirked.
    “And now you’re just being blasphemous,” Brett muttered. “And if you think you’re in the clear then you’ve got another thing coming. Look.” He threw down a few of the tabloids. Pictures of me littered them, as they always did, but this time it hit me straight in the gut.
    “What’s that?”
    Drugs. It looked like drugs. Holy hell.
    “You tell me.”
    I was lying across a couch with three scantily-clad women. Each of them was taking pills.
    It looked bad. As in bad enough to make my stomach clench and cause me to rethink the whole breakfast burrito with hot sauce idea after our meeting.
    “I don’t do that shit. Believe me. I know what it does to a person.” My step-mom being the prime example.
    “I know that.” Brett sighed. “And you know that. But the media? They’ve just labeled you America’s newest English bad boy. They’re calling you the new British Invasion. My phone’s ringing off the hook with irate producers who are thinking very seriously about not casting you, only because it appears that you’re not serious about your work. Now. Sit.”
    Really given no other choice, I sat this time and moaned into my hands. “What do I do?”
    “Stop sleeping around.”
    “Be reasonable.” I laughed. “What can I do that won’t make me want to kill myself?”
    Seriously, was the guy a monk? I had needs. And so did the girls. Was it my fault that I became available every time they needed a little… attention?
    With an evil smile, Brett answered, “Well, I thought you’d never ask.” Brett pressed a button on his phone, “Yeah, Patty, go ahead and book that trip to Portland for Jaymeson, get him a car too.”
    Patty. What kind of name is Patty? Wait, did he just say…
    “Portland?” I repeated. “Oregon?”
    As in the large city next to Hell, also known as Seaside?
    Brett folded his arms across his chest. “Nope.”
    I wasn’t sure I wanted to know where he was going with this.
    “Seaside, Oregon. You’re going back to Hell.” At least he labeled it correctly. Was it selfish to wish for a plane to crash?
    Okay, I could deal with this. I was just going to be honest. “No.” I shook my head at least five times. “Hell, no.”
    Brett held up his hand and continued to ignore me and my pleas.
    “Right. Okay.” The phone clicked. He lifted his head and grinned. “It’s all settled. Pack your bags, Jaymeson.”
    “This is a joke, right?” I stood and placed my hands on the desk. “You’re trying to scare me.”
    “Nope.” Brett sighed heavily. In that moment it was as if I was able to see how stressed he was.
    Was I driving him to that sort of behavior? You know, the type where you feel like you have no other choice