This is a work of fiction, loosely based on the actor Russell Crowe.
I do not own the copyright on that character, but only
on the premise of this story.

This story is for readers over the age of 18 only, and contains explicit sexual situations
and adult language. The writer is not responsible for any "discomfort"
caused to the reader by this language and these situations.

©2003 by WILDBEARIES

TRUTH
Chapter 22

Reagan's house was the same, yet different. By that I mean, it had the same welcoming warmth and casual feel, but some of the furniture and accessories were new. Her old leather sofa in the den was gone and in its place was a new one made of antiqued leather with of burled wood frame that was just magnificent. I had to pet it - I loved stuff like that. You either had to stumble across it in antique galleries for astronomical prices or have it made, almost equally costly. She had the matching loveseat, and a coordinating easy chair that just begged to be sunk down into and the ottoman invited your tired feet to rest easy. "Man," I breathed, "I'm impressed. Did you rob a bank, luv?"

She gave me a puzzled look, then looked at her den as if seeing it for the first time and laughed, "In a way - perks of a number one bestseller."

I decided to tease her. Probably, if I'd been less tired and my brain had been firing on all cylinders, I wouldn't have, but when have you known me to be wise? "You had a book that went number one? How cool, Reagan!"

Her puzzled look that had changed to a smile now turned a bit sour, "Trust you to be totally isolated by your Aussie pals and your movie buddies." She walked past me into the kitchen, tossing a curt invitation over one shoulder for me to follow her if I wanted a drink. Since I was nothing if not thirsty, I trudged after her. I wondered briefly if I should just hunt up the sharpest blade in her knife block and slash my wrists with it. I'm nothing if not a drama queen. Er, king - despite rumors you might have heard, I'm not remotely gay. I know - too much information that you don't care about in the first place. Moving right along. . .

I could have cheerfully kicked his ass for the "number one book" crack. I knew damn well he was aware of it; after all, he'd just bought the film rights to the latest one. He wouldn't have done that if he hadn't researched every little thing there was to research about me. He'd done it with every story treatment or script he'd bought for his own production company for the last two years. Even I read the trades. Even I, self-jilted ex-lover of one Russell Crowe, former Aussie enfant terríble and self-confessed monster from early childhood, knew what he was doing and what screenplays he was interested in. That he'd spent a pretty penny of his own company's money to buy my novel's rights was very satisfying. He'd had to outbid some very famous production companies to do it. I wondered when would be the right moment to let him know that a certain friend of mine at Dreamworks had been one of the people to bid him up so he'd had to pay through the nose for the story?

I would save that for later, I decided, and poured him a big glass of iced tea, adding lemon and sugar to it. "There - that should cut the thirst." While he guzzled, I set the whole pitcher of tea next to him and hunted in the fridge for the makings of dinner. I had food on hand. I was not expecting this precise guest to turn up uninvited, but it had been in the back of my mind that he might, given Mexico's relatively close proximity to Texas.

"Thanks," he wheezed after downing two big glasses of the icy drink. "I was really dry after almost two days of nonstop driving."

I glanced at him over my shoulder. "Two nonstop days? Where did you drive from? Baja wouldn't take you that long."

He scrubbed his hands through the mop of blonde hair (I still wasn't used to that) and gave me a sheepish look. "Well, actually, I drove from Baja to LA, and then from LA to Santa Barbara to meet some people, then from there to here."

"That still wouldn't take 48 hours, Russell." I took out lamb chops, butter, sweet onion, the makings of a spicy glaze and shut the fridge. "You must've circled Austin ten times."

"Well, I wasn't driving the whole time," he admitted, "I stopped and started, argued with myself. I think I turned completely around twice and then turned around again and kept coming." I didn't say anything. He fiddled with the lemon slices in his glass and refilled it to fill the little silence that fell. I unwrapped the lamb and set the two beautiful chops on a plate while I began to make the glaze. "That smells good," he commented.

"It will be." I stirred some ginger and fresh herbs into the soy sauce base, added some extra extra virgin olive oil. "So when you weren't driving - what?"

He actually blushed. I absorbed this remarkable event, all the time stirring, the spoon clinking rhythmically inside the old Pyrex measuring cup - the big one, the one you could almost use as a drink pitcher - while he wriggled uncomfortably on the barstool and looked at his somewhat grimy hands. Finally he looked up at me from under his drawn-down brows and admitted, "I was talking to a counselor."

My spoon banged discordantly against the cup and sauce slopped onto the granite counter top. "Counselor as in attorney?" I finally asked.

He shook his head, looking anywhere but at me, until, finally, hearing my exasperated huff, he fixed those eyes on mine and shook his head again. "No. Counselor as in doctor - head doctor, Reagan. I've started something I said I'd never do: I'm seeing a psychiatrist."

I blotted up the sauce and resumed stirring, wondering at both my steady hand and his words. "And this turn-about in thinking is because?" I asked him.

He was doing his hand-nesting thing. It meant he didn't know what to do with himself. It meant he was nervous and uncomfortable. I was amazed. "Because - because - yeah, why is it?" he mused aloud. He returned his gaze to my face and soldiered on. "Because I was starting to hate myself more than I hated everybody else. And I was forgetting my lines, Reagan. You know, no matter what was going on in my life in the past, the one thing I could count on was that I could do my job with no hitches. Suddenly, I can't do a scene in less than ten takes, and everybody's upset with me because I'm slowing production down. Me. Can you fathom it?"

I nodded slowly, "Yes - you're only human, y'know, babe. Despite what your little army of hangers-on might tell you."

His eyes flashed at that, but it was true, and he knew it. "The straight words, eh, Reagan? Even if they hurt like a bitch. I suppose I deserve it."

I set the finished glaze on the counter, staring distractedly down at the pair of chops awaiting its arrival on their platter. Get ahold of yourself, I said under my breath. I poured the glaze over the chops and let them sit in it for a bit to marinade. I busied my hands making salad, finding the tearing of lettuce, the chopping of peppers and quartering of tomatoes to be soothing. A vegetable security blanket. "I try to be honest, Russell, that hasn't changed." I looked up at him from spinning the greens. "I really haven't changed much at all, actually."

His mouth quirked in a half smile. "Except for some newer, fancier trappings, no, you don't seem that much different, Reag. You always have been beautiful."

Damn him!

"Don't try to get 'round me with compliments, buster. You want baked or baked?"

"How about baked?" he answered, smiling at an old joke from when we'd only had baking potatoes in the house and not one other speck of food, and were too occupied fucking to bother going to get anything else.

"Works for me," I murmured, and put the potatoes in the microwave. I prefer oven-baked, but I was starving, and the chops would cook in almost no time, so I opted for the faster results. I fired up the grille in my cooktop range and sprinkled cracked fresh pepper on the lamb.

"So, anyway," he went on when I had placed the chops onto the grille rack. "I got cut loose from the film for a couple weeks - not my doing, before you ask. They hadn't finished the other boat and had to do some training on the rest of the sailors. I think they've decided to do the location filming in the Caribbean on the real sailing ship before we reconvene in Rosarito. So I've got three weeks off, all told. I had Mark make some arrangements, find me the right person to see, and I went to see them." He sipped at the tea now, his thirst seemingly quenched for the most part. "I've spent almost ten hours talking, Reagan, and I have to tell you, I'm beginning to feel a little bit more human again."

"And you were - what? - before. A cow? A dog?"

"It's not a joke, don't poke fun at me, I'm drowning here, trying to tell you what I'm going through. Don't make light of it, please."

The look in his eyes cut me to the bone and I stopped trying to twit him. I walked around the counter and put my hands on his shoulders. Standing behind him, looking down at the touseled blonde head, I squeezed his shoulders gently and apologized. "I'm sorry. I'll stop now and let you talk." When he breathed a huge sigh of relief, I gave him a gentle clout on the right side of his head, "Not that I don't want to put you over my knee for some of the shit I've read about the past few years."

"Ow! Reagan - you do not play fair!" he exclaimed, rubbing his ear.

I sashayed back over to the grille and checked on my lamb, turning the chops over to cook on the other side. As the microwave whistled, I gave him a wide grin. "I know - but I promise to at least try to since you're my guest for the night."

He heaved another big sigh, then cocked his head at me, "Just for one night?"

"Yes. Any more than that is open to debate at the moment. We'll see." And I turned back to the range to finish my lovely chops. "Get the potatoes out, would you? I'll finish these and put the salad on the table so we can eat."