Yeah, Chase needed a moment’s respite as the inappropriate thrill of shocking Olivia faded, leaving her with a shit ton of ugliness flooding her soul. She hated thinking about stupid Peter . . . about the way he’d tasted like cigarettes and Beefeater. How he’d tried to flirt with a thirteen-year-old. How he’d jabbed his fingers inside her, telling her she’d like it if she just relaxed. Sometimes she had nightmares about that night. The scenes that ripped through her head were tinged with blood and always ended with brains splattered on a wall. Freud would have said that reflected her sanity being broken apart by effing Peter Rinduso throwing his used condom at her after she’d screamed for her father to help her.

Her father hadn’t come to her rescue like a normal dad would have. In fact, when she’d finally emerged from the guest room, tears staining her face, her daddy had winked at her like it was their little secret, and then he’d made her a drink with real alcohol in it. She’d drunk it all down because she wanted to erase Peter’s grunts in her ear and the way he’d bruised her hips with his fingers.

She guessed the only silver lining was that Peter had used a condom and she hadn’t gotten pregnant or syphilis.

“Chase, that’s not a conversational comment. That’s a nuclear bomb you just tossed at me.”

“No shit,” Chase said, trying to sound breezy, like she didn’t care that she’d just revealed something she’d planned to never, ever, in a million years tell someone. She’d have the nightmares tonight. She just knew it.

“That’s your response? To shrug it off?” Olivia sounded almost angry, like now she was knee-deep in Chase’s psychological bullshit and didn’t have a surefire way to get out.

“Who’s shrugging, Olivia?” Chase refused to look at the woman who she’d poked with a really sharp stick. She knew she hadn’t pulled herself together enough to surrender her current position. If she looked at Olivia, the woman might see the regret. Might see the pain she crumpled up and swallowed so no one else could read it.

The glass door opened, drawing Chase’s attention, and Spencer emerged, balancing a cardboard container. He hadn’t gotten her what she’d asked for, because he knew what she really wanted. They’d worked on High School High, Bring It Back, and Prom Queen Switch together back in the day. They’d remained friends, even though he had, admittedly, distanced himself from the disaster that was her life. Still, she knew she could count on Spence when she really needed him, which is why she’d called him and not one of her sycophants. They shared that bond—one of growing up under the microscope in the paper-thin Hollywood world, a tenuous place that could collapse with just one punch.

Spencer waved farewell to a group of boys accompanied by a mom who was already tapping on her phone as she tried to wrangle them into her minivan. No doubt the Hammer had taken a few pictures with his fans. She had to admit that Spencer was really good at being a movie star. He took selfies with fans, signed body parts, and looked like he actually enjoyed interacting with the people who always wanted something from him.