Hollywood on Tap by Avery Flynn

one–hundred–percent confident.
    “And you won’t.” Sean tossed a ten and a five on the table. That should cover the sandwich he wasn’t going to eat and Ellen’s tip. “Sean Duvin doesn’t exist anymore.”

    Sean’s SUV idled at the stop sign on the edge of Salvation. His left turn signal ticked in a steady rhythm like a time bomb.
    The savvy move would be to turn left, go home, pack up, and disappear in another small town. Crowley wouldn’t have left the bright lights of the big city and traveled across the country to small–town Virginia unless he was damn sure he’d find Sean here—and he wouldn’t leave until he’d confirmed he’d found him.
    Tick.
    Tick.
    Tick.
    There was plenty of gossip in Tinseltown, but the reporter had dogged Sean’s footsteps for years, writing too many magazine articles and televised reports to count and even publishing a book about the “talented young actor who’d vanished from the face of the Earth.” Crowley had built up Sean to be this generation’s James Dean just without the dead body inside a twisted car’s wreckage.
    Tick.
    Tick.
    Tick.
    A car horn blared behind him. Sean rolled down the driver’s side window and waved the minivan around. The soccer mom gave him a one–fingered salute and peeled off toward the right. Following the van with his gaze, he leaned forward until he could see the Sweet Salvation Brewery turnoff. Natalie waited two miles down that asphalt road.
    Long answers to short questions. Soft sweaters with tiny little buttons. The clipboard always at the ready. Hungry lips and soft moans. Tightly wound hair. The teasing scent of honeysuckle that followed in her wake. Five–billion–point plans. Endless possibilities.
    Tick.
    Tick.
    Tick.
    He glanced the other direction at the open highway. Freedom and anonymity lived along that road. All he had to do was turn left and Sean Duvin would stay buried. Maybe forever if he did a good enough job of running. He was good at disappearing. Always had been. He’d been eight years old the first time he’d lost himself in a role, escaping his frustrated actor slash domineering stage father and the backhands that came out of nowhere for no reason. After that, he’d never looked back.
    He couldn’t afford to now.
    But the idea of leaving Natalie while someone was doing their damnedest to sabotage the brewery left a foul taste in his mouth, sour without any hint of sweet. He couldn’t fucking do it.
    Truth was, he was tired of play acting at being himself.
    Easing his foot off the break, the SUV rolled into the intersection before making a right turn and heading toward the brewery and Natalie.

Chapter Nine
    With four hours to go until most of the brewery staff left, Natalie was officially going stir–crazy waiting for something—anything—to go wrong. If she stayed another minute in her office, she was going to start accessorizing with a straightjacket instead of pearls.
    Armed with her clipboard, her red pen, and the anxiety jitters reminiscent of downing ten shots of espresso, she marched out of her office on a mission. She’d find Sean, work out a schedule for the stakeout tonight, and plot a course of action for when they found the son of a bitch messing with her brewery.
    Turning the corner, she crossed into Sean’s office. “Hey, about tonight.” She looked up from her clipboard and almost dropped it.
    The office was empty.
    And clean.
    “Holy shit,” she muttered to herself as she walked in slow motion around the space.
    The paper towers were gone, as were the coffee mugs that had littered Sean’s desk. The overturned pen holder had been righted and filled. The stack of brochures sat in the inbox with the brewers invitational on top. He’d said last night that he’d found the paperwork in the third pile he searched, but she hadn’t thought…
    She shuffled over to the filing cabinets. Only the smallest line of sticky residue remained of the tape holding the drawers shut yesterday.