Chapter 11
Anna
As I crossed the darkened parking lot, I muttered, "I can't believe I'm doing this."
It had been only ten minutes since Flynn had sauntered out of the restaurant, leaving me and Michael to lock up and get the heck out of there.
Flynn's tab had come to just under fourteen dollars, which meant that he'd given me a six-dollar tip. Percentage-wise, it was a lot more generous than any other tip I'd received, not just tonight, but during the whole year that I'd been working there.
Still, I couldn’t help but compare it to the fifty-dollar bill that he'd left for Michael on his way out. I hadn't actually seen Flynn do it, but Michael had been so blown away by the surprise that he'd practically sprinted over to wave it in my face.
And then, he'd asked that dreadful question. "How much did he leave you?"
I hadn't wanted to say, partly from embarrassment, and partly because I didn't want Michael to feel guilty about how much he'd gotten compared to me.
Probably, this was the first tip he'd gotten in his whole life. After all, it wasn't exactly standard practice to tip the cooks regardless of the hour.
I was happy for Michael, really I was. But somehow, the whole thing felt like a big ploy to get under my skin. To think, Flynn had tipped Betsy twenty dollars just for seating him.
I mean, who did that?
No one at Pinkie's Waffle Palace, that's for sure.
In the end, I'd dodged Michael's question by joking that a lady never tells, which in my case, was more true than he knew. After all, Flynn and I did have our share of secrets.
Flynn's car was irritatingly easy to find, and not only because the parking lot was so empty. Rather, it was because his car was so freaking exotic that I didn't even know what it was.
All I knew was that it was sleek and dark, and from the looks of it, very, very expensive.
When I tapped on the driver's side window, it slid down, revealing Flynn sitting behind the wheel. He flicked his head toward the passenger's seat and said, "Get in."
"I don't need to get in," I said. "You can tell me out here."
"No."
"Why not?"
"If you wanna know, get in the car."
Talk about circular reasoning. Maybe I should've been afraid. He obviously hated me. He wasn't even bothering to hide it.
I tried to think. What if I did get in?
It would be so stupidly easy for Flynn to drive me someplace secluded and chop me up in a million pieces. Afterward, he could dump those pieces into some ditch along the side of the road.
Considering our history, it would be almost poetic.
But if that were the plan, Flynn wouldn't've bothered to come inside the restaurant at all. Rather, he would've just caught me on the way out, tossed me in the trunk of his car along with a chainsaw, and continued along on his merry way.
Flynn's voice jolted me back to reality. "I thought you wanted to get home."
"I do."
"Yeah. Me, too. So get your ass in the car, all right?"
Several months ago, the whole town had been buzzing with the news that Flynn Archer was building a home in the area. Unlike practically everyone else in Sugar Falls, I hadn't driven by the construction site, not even once. But I'd heard enough to know that the house was very big and very secluded.
All the better for chopping me up.
I bit my lip. "We're not going anywhere, are we?" I hesitated. "I mean, we're not going for a drive. We're just sitting here, right?"
He leaned back in the driver's seat. "Hard to go anywhere when you're not in the car."
"Oh, c'mon, you know what I mean."
"If it makes you feel better," he said, "you can hold the keys."
I leaned forward and peered at the steering column of his car. Although the car's engine was running, I didn't see any keys dangling from the ignition.
He explained, "It's a push button."
I wasn't quite sure how that worked. Still, I held out my hand. "All right, hand them over, the keys, I mean."
"Not 'til you're inside."
"Why not?"
He gave me a look. "Anna."
"What?"
"We both know you're gonna get in. So let's cut the crap and get it over with, all right?"
In the blockbuster movies that had made him famous, Flynn had this wonderful accent – not quite British, but something close. Now, he sounded all American, just like he'd sounded back in high school.
Still, he had a nice, rich voice. And if only we didn't hate each other, I might've loved to listen to it. But now, it was just one more thing that didn't quite fit.
As far as me getting into his car, maybe he did have a point. After all, I couldn’t stand outside forever.
So, with a sigh, I circled around the front of his car, yanked open the passenger's side door, and settled myself into the passenger's seat.
I'd barely shut the door behind me when Flynn turned to me and said, "I need a girlfriend."
Chapter 12
Anna
I gave Flynn a long, perplexed look. A girlfriend? For what? And why? With a little shake of my head, I said, "Excuse me?"
"A girlfriend," he repeated.
I was frowning now. "What do you mean?"
"What do you think I mean?"
I turned sideways in the seat to face him head-on. "You know exactly what I think." I gave him a thin smile. "So what is this? Some sort of game?"
"No."
Oh, please. "You wanna see how low I've sunk? Is that it?"
His gaze drifted to my uniform, stained and grubby from the night's work. "I've already seen," he said. "No more fun in that."
Heat flooded my face. "Gee thanks."
He was still eying the stain. "Seems to me, you'd be happy for a better offer."
"Oh, really? Lemme guess." I forced a laugh. "You've got another fifty in your wallet, and you're thinking, hey, why not toss it to Anna for some cheap car sex. Is that it?"
"Fifty bucks?" He gave a low scoff. "That's not that cheap."
His words felt like a slap. Then again, that had probably been his intention all along.
He was goading me. I was almost sure of it.
In truth, I had no idea how much professionals charged for sex, but I did know that Flynn Archer wouldn’t be shopping in the bargain aisle.
More the point, he wouldn’t be paying at all.
Cripes, one wink from him, and Betsy would've bent over the table faster than you could say, "One giant sausage, coming up."
Shaking off that disturbing thought, I gave Flynn my snottiest smile. "Well, you gave Michael a fifty for nothing, so excuse me if I'm a little confused."
"It wasn't nothing," Flynn said. "He made the waffle."
"Yeah. But I put the toppings on it, which is a lot harder by the way."
I didn't even know why I was being so petty. I was glad he'd given Michael the money. It was nice, actually. And as far as myself, it was amazing that Flynn had tipped me at all.
But now, to my infinite annoyance, he was laughing.
"What's so funny?" I demanded.
"You." Mimicking my complaint, he said, "I put the toppings on it."
"Well, I did!" I insisted. "The cooks make the waffles, but the waitresses do the other stuff."
"Is that so?"
"Yes, it is," I informed him. "It's the same with a desert or milkshake. Those are done by us, not by–" I looked away. "You know what? Forget it. I don't even know why I'm complaining."
"Yeah, you and me both."
I turned again to face him. "Actually, I’m not complaining. I’m just saying, I’m confused, that's all."
"About what?"
Where to begin? "Well, for starters, I don't even know what to call you." I paused. "I mean, your name used to be John."
"Yeah. And it still is."
"So you didn't legally change it?"
"I didn't need to," he said.
Now, I was even more curious. "What d
o you mean?"
"My name," he said. "It's Flynn Jonathon Archer, always has been."
"But you went by John."
"Not anymore," he said. "And you're avoiding the issue."
He was right. I was. After all, we'd wandered awfully far from his original statement. But fine, if he wanted to go there, I was ready.
It was time to point out the obvious. "You don't need a girlfriend."
"You're right."
"See?"
"Not for real," he clarified, "which is why I’m hiring you for the job."
I forced a laugh. "You think so, huh?"
"I know so."
"Well, someone's sure of himself."
"You're right. I am."
"Okay, I'll play along," I said. "Why would you need a pretend girlfriend?" I gave a snort of derision. "What, are you hoping to make Felicity jealous?"
He frowned. "Don't need much help for that."
No doubt, this was true. A guy like Flynn? He was ogled wherever he went. If Felicity were the jealous type, she'd have plenty of reasons already.
I said, "So this isn't about Felicity?"
"No. But if it makes her give it up, all the better."
It? Meaning their relationship? It sure sounded that way.
"Why?" I asked. "I thought you two were practically engaged."
"Then you thought wrong," he said. "And I'm not paying you to ask questions."
I lifted my chin. "Technically, you haven't paid me at all. But it doesn't matter. I'm not interested."
"Cut the crap," he said. "You're plenty interested, and you know it."
"I am not," I said. "I'm just curious, which isn't the same thing. Like, why would you ask me of all people?"
Again, his gaze drifted to my uniform. "Because you need the money."
"Oh, so you're doing me a favor?"
"Don't bet on it."
"Don't worry," I told him. "I wasn't planning to."
"And I know you're smart enough to keep your mouth shut."
If he were anybody else, I might've taken this as a compliment. "Oh, am I?"
"You'd better be," he said. "Because if you blab, I'll ruin you." He said it so matter-of-factly, it was almost scary.
Still, as far as threats went, it was coming far too late. I was already ruined. During the past few years, I'd lost almost everything, including my dignity. I mean, what could Flynn do to me that hadn't been done already?
I gave a dramatic eye-roll. "Oh no," I said with mock horror. "Not that."
"So, you think you've hit rock bottom?" He gave me a cold smile. "Baby, you're not even close."
The car was nice and warm, but something about that smile sent an icy shiver down my spine. He had a point. As bad as things were, they could always get worse.
I was bristling now. "What exactly do you mean?"
"You've got imagination," he said. "Use it."
Suddenly, I didn't want to. Already, Flynn had a reputation, and it wasn't for being a nice guy. He was known for being cold and ruthless, maybe not quite as ruthless as the prince he played in the movies, but even in real life, he'd still be a dangerous person to cross.
Whatever he was offering, there was only one smart answer I could give.
No.
Or better yet, hell no.
Chapter 13
Anna
Becka was staring. "Are you freaking nuts?"
Was I? Probably. But I didn't want Becka to worry, so I tried to smile. "Yeah, well…It's good money."
"So?"
"So we need it."
She shook her head. "Not that bad."
She was wrong, and we both knew it. On the apartment's telephone, bill collectors had been calling non-stop. By now, I was ready to rip the stupid thing right out of the wall – except I couldn’t afford to pay for the phone or the damage if I let my despair get the best of me.
To Becka, all I said was, "Who knows, it might be fun."
Yeah, like a root canal.
She replied, "But he's totally crazy. You know that, right?"
"He is not." Or least, I sure hoped he wasn't.
"He is, too," Becka insisted. "Remember what he did to those reporters in Barcelona?"
I did remember, because I'd seen it on the news. Apparently, he'd caught a couple of reporters sneaking into his rented villa while he was supposed to be filming on location.
Due to a change in schedule, he'd returned just in time to catch them going through his things. One thing had led to another, and he'd ended up tossing both of them right off the nearest balcony.
I winced. "Well, yeah. But it's not like they were hurt or anything."
"But they fell two stories!"
"Sure, but into the pool."
She looked far from comforted. "Was he aiming for the pool?"
Honestly, I had no idea. Still, I replied, "Well I’m sure he didn't mean to kill them or anything."
"And then there was that guy in Malibu," she said. "You remember what happened to him?"
Yeah, I remembered. Flynn had caught some guy sneaking into the women's changing room while Felicity Saint Cloud was trying on some bikinis.
Flynn had dragged the guy out by his ankle – and onto the sidewalk, where the creep had been promptly run over.
I mumbled, "Well, at least he wasn't squashed."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, the guy that Flynn dragged out – he got run over by a bicycle, not a dump truck."
"So?"
"I'm just saying, it could've been worse."
Becka looked at me like I'd lost my mind. "And you know he does his own stunts, right?"
"Yeah, so?"
"So what if he gets mad and decides to chop you up?"
Funny, I'd asked myself a similar question before getting into his car. And I'd survived that just fine.
Dodging the issue, I replied, "What does chopping me up have to do with stunt-work?"
"I'm just saying, he has that sword–"
"Which I'm sure is just a prop."
"So?" she said. "The way you talk, he was a total ass-hat."
If she meant last night, she had a point. He'd been cold and insulting even after I'd agreed to his twisted proposal.
As far as my agreement not to "blab," Becka didn't count. She might be horrified, but she could definitely keep a secret, which is why in our crappy little bedroom, I'd just relayed what had happened between me and Flynn the previous night.
And yes, he had been an ass-hat – only to me though. I sighed. "Yeah, but can I really blame him?"
"Oh, stop it," she said. "It wasn't your fault that Gordon's a turd."
Gordon – funny, these days, neither one of us called him Dad. Even Becka, who'd been spared the worst of his idiosyncrasies, had stopped calling him Dad long before he'd been hauled off to prison for his many financial crimes.
Unfortunately, Mom still adored him, even now, after he'd brought us loads of misery. We'd lost everything, except for a slew of unpaid legal bills. Oh yeah, we had plenty of those hanging around.
Lucky us.
Still, I tried to look on the bright side. Regardless of the animosity, I would trust Flynn Archer over my stepdad any day. Flynn might be rude and ruthless, but he was the kind of guy who'd keep his word – whether he'd been promising something good or bad.
Did I like him?
No. Not anymore.
But did I trust him?
Probably. Or maybe I was only telling myself that because I was so desperate for the money.
As Becka watched, I pulled out the cash he'd given me and laid it across the rumpled sheets of my single bed. It was two thousand dollars in crisp hundred-dollar bills.
Becka frowned down at the cash. "For what he wants, you deserve way more than that."
I looked up. "Didn't I tell you? This is just a down payment."
She gave the money another glance. "Really?"
It suddenly struck me that I'd done a sorry job of explaining the whole arrangement. So, as
Becka listened, I ran through all of the details.
Flynn wanted a local girl to pretend to be an old flame from his past. He'd already completed the filming of his latest movie, but the movie's actual release date was still four months away. During those four months, I'd pretend to be his girlfriend in order to keep – in his words – everyone off his back.
I still wasn't sure why. I mean, if he wanted people to leave him alone, wouldn't he just tell them to fuck off and be done with it?
He did, after all, have that reputation.
When I finished going over the details, Becka said, "So, are you gonna …you know."
I knew exactly what she meant. "Have sex with him?" Recalling his hatred, I almost shuddered. "No. Definitely not. That's not part of the deal."
She gave a little frown. "Oh."
Now it was my turn to stare. "What, you're disappointed? I mean, you did just call him an ass-hat."
She shrugged. "Yeah, well…"
"And crazy."
"Yeah, but he's so luscious." She blew out a long, shaky breath. "And the way he swings that sword…"
"You do know that's just in the movies, right?"
"Yeah, but I'm just saying." She leaned forward. "Haven't you ever wanted to do it with a movie star?"
"No."
She smiled. "Liar. We saw Swordplay together, remember?"
I did remember. Swordplay was the second movie in the trilogy that had made Flynn famous. Even though money was tight, Becka and I had splurged on a matinee with popcorn and candy. "Yeah, so?"
"So I saw the way you were looking at him, I mean on the screen."
I knew what she meant. The sad thing was, I'd always had a soft spot for him, not Flynn the movie star, but John, the guy who'd loaned me his coat all those years ago.
Although the encounter had brought us nothing but misery, I still remembered how chivalrous he'd been.
And he'd paid dearly for it, too.
I hated that.
In reply to Becka's comment, all I said was, "Yeah, well, I was looking at his character, Prince Marcus, not him."
Becka gave me a look that suggested she knew better. "Let's assume I believe that, you never said…who's everyone?"
"What do you mean?"
"You said your job is to keep everyone off his back. But you never said who 'everyone' was."
"Actually, I don't know," I admitted. "Mostly Felicity, I guess."
Flipping His Script: A Loathing to Love Romance Page 5
