Behind the Scenes

by Christina C Jones

  Behind The Scenes

  Christina C. Jones

  Copyright © 2020 by Christina C. Jones

  Editing by Trim&Polish

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  About The Book

  Acknowledgments

  1. Logan

  2. Pierre

  3. Logan

  4. Pierre

  5. Logan

  6. Pierre

  7. Logan

  8. Pierre

  9. Logan

  10. Pierre

  11. Logan

  12. Pierre

  13. Logan

  14. Pierre

  15. Logan

  16. Pierre

  17. Logan

  18. Pierre

  19. Logan

  20. Pierre

  21. Logan

  22. Pierre

  23. Logan

  24. Pierre

  25. Logan

  26. Logan

  27. Pierre

  28. Logan

  29. Pierre

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Also by Christina C. Jones

  About The Book

  Perfect.

  Privileged.

  Strong.

  Spoiled.

  Uptight.

  Useless.

  If there’s any one thing Pierre and Logan have in common, it’s their ability to invite snap judgements based on shallow views of who they are.

  Logan is the privileged only daughter of a respected family whose legacy runs long and deep.

  Pierre is the moody, orphaned son of big screen royalty who couldn’t possibly live up to the prestige of his pedigree.

  Or maybe not.

  Perhaps they’re just two people trying to navigate the pressures of a world hellbent on telling them what they should be, and eschewing the limits of other people’s expectations.

  Maybe what they need most is somebody who can see beyond the shallow first impressions – just one person they can allow to see behind the scenes of who they are.

  Maybe they have more in common than it seems.

  Acknowledgments

  All I ever want is to give my best.

  * * *

  I want to breathe life into these characters, their story, to offer something more, something better, than whatever I had to five in the moments before. Sometimes I do that better than others, but that’s always the goal.

  * * *

  For these past sixty projects, and the next sixty more, even though that sounds ridiculous.

  * * *

  It’ll always be the goal.

  * * *

  Thank you to my family for giving me room to do what I needed. My friends for tolerating my lamentations and encouraging me. My betas, D, R, C, C, J, J, L, A, for your feedback and your time.

  And always, always, my readers for your consistent support.

  Thank you.

  Enjoy!

  1

  Logan

  Pitiful.

  There was no other way to frame the utter weakness of my barely suppressed urge to respond to the pleasant chime echoing through my car.

  He was calling.

  Again.

  For at least the tenth time since I hurriedly dressed and grabbed my stuff, leaving the warm, false comfort of his bed in the middle of the night.

  I didn’t understand how he could sleep like that, after a fight.

  How the fuck had he found the peace to be stretched out, mouth hanging open, sweet-dreams-drooling while I laid restless beside him, my heart an open wound on the verge of bleeding out?

  Or – the better question – why was I okay with it?

  Was I okay with it?

  With any of this?

  … no.

  And all the attention I was – pitifully – begging his ass for before… of course he was ready to give it now.

  He never saw me more clearly than when I was walking away.

  That was when all his care and concern, all the things I needed, came pouring out.

  The fact that I even knew such a thing – that I’d accepted it enough, that I’d gone back enough times to see this pattern?

  Pitiful.

  I cranked my music louder, as if it would drown out the sound of his back-to-back calls – ridiculous when the phone was connected to the car.

  But whatever.

  I turned the dial until it wouldn’t go higher, scream-singing along with some break-up anthem as I navigated the dark streets of Vegas to get myself home.

  No tears, though.

  I refused those.

  Well… I tried.

  The more Les called, the more agitated I got, the more upset I got, the less I found myself in control – physically or emotionally, until I couldn’t take it anymore.

  I snatched my phone from where it was tucked into my purse on the passenger seat so I could reject the current call. Swiping past the countless texts, I navigated to where he was stored in my phone, so I could block him.

  The reminder that I was driving and had no business on my phone came very suddenly, in the form of a sleek, matte black G-Wagon in my left peripheral as I coasted past a stop sign. The phone dropped; forgotten into my lap as I grabbed my steering wheel to pull to the right – not fast enough, though. The distinct screech of metal-on-metal rang in my ears as I made glancing contact with the other vehicle – which wouldn’t have been that big of a deal.

  But I was so frazzled, from it all happening so fast, that I couldn’t get control fast enough not to drive right into – onto – a curb, with a hard stop that made my head hurt.

  And Les was still calling.

  Shit, shit, shit!

  I blew a hard sigh through my lips as I turned my car off, knowing I was going to have to get out and talk to the other driver, who’d stopped too, but hadn’t left their vehicle.

  Of all the things to hit, it had to be a luxury car?

  Instead of dawdling, I reached into my glove box for my insurance information, and opened my door into the empty street, glad that it was one of the few in this area with working streetlights offering ample visibility.

  When I climbed out, so did the other driver, in a ribbed tank and basketball shorts that made me feel less self-conscious about my pajama shorts and tee shirt.

  “You tipsy or something, shorty?” he called, stopping a good length away from me – too far for me to really make out his face, especially with the hat pulled low over his eyes.

  “No,” I answered, trying to keep my tone light and friendly, since I was clearly at fault. “Just… distracted, my bad. I’ve got my insurance information right here.”

  “Distracted, your bad?” he scoffed. “You busted up my shit, and that’s all you’ve got?”

  I peered toward his vehicle, which… yes, there was some damage to his rear fender and the casing on the taillight was broken, but… “It’s not that bad?”

  “Wow,” he droned, moving closer now. “Let’s see how you feel about it when you get the bill.”

  I shrugged. “Whatever. Are you getting the details or not? Nobody is hurt, so let’s get this done. I wanna go home.”

  “That’s how it works? I just take the info, we go about our business?”

  He was close enough now that while most of his face was still in the shadows from the brim of his hat, I could see the distinctive glint of a grill when he spoke, and caught the distinctive whiff of certain… herbal remedies… coming off him.

  “Ideally? Yes,” I a
nswered. “There’s no point in getting the police involved if nobody is hurt, especially since you’ve been…”

  The streetlight reflected off his grin. “Since I’ve been…?”

  “Smoking. I smell it on you,” I told him. “And you know LVPD is gonna have something to say about it, and there’s no point in turning this into all that. Really we don’t even have to do this insurance stuff – you can send the bill to my office.”

  “Ohh. You just got G-Wagon repair money on your own, huh?”

  “The bill will get paid,” I countered, not wanting to give more information than necessary. “So, again… can we exchange info and be on our way?”

  He pushed his hands into the pockets of his shorts, looking away from me to where my car – a birthday gift from my father, which was why it would be great to handle this without insurance – was still parked.

  “We could, but…” he walked away from where I was standing, going around to the front end. “I don’t think you’re going anywhere.”

  My eyebrow went up. “What?”

  “Your shit is pretty busted,” he explained, gesturing toward my front passenger side. I came around to where he was standing, and at first glance it looked like I’d just punctured my tire on an errant grate when I hit the curb. Looking a little closer though, the whole tire assembly just looked… out of place.

  I didn’t know much about cars, but I did know it didn’t look in much shape to be driven.

  And Les was still calling.

  I could hear the phone, still on the floor of my car where it had landed, buzzing incessantly with back to back calls that had to qualify as some sort of harassment at this point.

  And I had no idea what to do.

  It was three in the morning, on a damn Tuesday, and I’d wrecked my car trying to block my boyfriend while I was driving away from what I guessed now was our breakup.

  Who the fuck was I supposed to call and explain that to?

  “Ay… this isn’t exactly a part of town where you wanna be hanging out,” the stranger spoke up, bringing me back to the reality of my current predicament. “You got somebody you can call?”

  Can?

  Yes.

  Want to?

  Hell no.

  “I’ll just get an Uber or something,” I stammered, shaking my head as I went toward the car to retrieve my phone.

  “At this time of night? Over here? You’re funny.”

  Frustrated, I turned to face him with my hands up. “Well, I don’t know what the fuck else to do, so…”

  He blew out a sigh, pulling a hand from his pocket to grab the brim of his hat, tugging at it. “Where do you live?”

  “What?”

  “Where do you live?” he repeated back to me, spacing the words, sounding them out like I was a kindergartener. “Pull your car off the curb to actually park it. I’ll give you a ride home, and you can have somebody come get it when shit opens up.”

  I sucked my teeth. “A ride?! Boy I don’t know you!”

  “I don’t know you,” he countered. “And you hit my shit, but I’m still trying to keep your ass from being a story on the news. We doing this or not?”

  “Not,” was my immediate response. “This is an episode of Criminal Minds just waiting to happen.”

  “Cool,” he shrugged. “Lemme get your business card or whatever so I can send this bill to your office, like you said.”

  “So you’re cool with doing it like that, instead of going through the insurance?”

  “I thought you said you had it?”

  “I do,” I snapped back. “I’m just making sure you’re cool with it.”

  “I’m cool with whatever gets me off this street before somebody comes along and jacks me for my shit, shorty,” he said, with another heavy sigh as he crossed his arms. Making sure I felt his impatience.

  And really… I couldn’t blame him.

  He’d been minding his business - I had caused this.

  And, he was right about this area, which I knew better than to cruise through. It was just a shortcut, through a largely abandoned neighborhood, I was in a bad habit of taking.

  As I reached in the car to grab a business card instead of my insurance, that little fact kept rolling in my mind.

  Sitting in a useless luxury car, alone in the dark, waiting for a stranger to come and pick me up… didn’t exactly scream safety.

  With one of my cards in hand, I straightened up, turning to him to study his face.

  “What?” he asked, when he realized I was staring at him.

  “Trying to decide if you look like a serial killer.”

  He chuckled at that, shaking his head. “I don’t think it quite works like that.”

  “It doesn’t,” I admitted. “But I need to justify accepting your offer of a ride somehow, so… let’s say it does.”

  “Oh. So… now I am giving you a ride?”

  “If the option is still available?”

  For a moment, he just looked at me, then he nodded. “Yeah. Fine. Let’s get it over with.”

  Damn.

  Okay.

  As he’d suggested, with a lot of maneuvering, I managed to back my car down from the curb I’d crashed into, and actually park it. But even that little bit of driving confirmed there was no way I could get it all the way home in that state. I took all my important stuff out, loading it into my purse before I locked the car, even though that really didn’t matter much if somebody decided they wanted it.

  I still didn’t know this guy’s name, but I snapped a picture of his license plate to send to my homegirl – I knew she wouldn’t see the text before I could explain the purpose. He was waiting though – graciously, honestly – so I didn’t linger too much before opening his passenger side door to climb inside.

  It smelled like… him.

  Like weed – good weed – yes, but more too. Woodsy, and clean, and… comforting. The butter-soft leather seats were plush against my skin, the steady blast of the air conditioning a welcome respite from the dry summer heat. It was all so pleasing to my senses after all that tension that I – reflexively – closed my eyes, taking a moment to just… be.

  “Yo, you never said where you lived.”

  My eyes popped open, and I turned in his direction for the – admittedly uncomfortable – discovery that… damn he’s fine.

  “Um… not too far,” I hedged, before telling him where my definitely out of the way building was – at least, compared to where we were now.

  He didn’t seem to have a problem with it though, just gave me a nod, cranked his music back up, and started driving and paying me no mind.

  I was paying him plenty mind though.

  Les’ phone calls were still vibrating in my lap as I studied him – light brown skin, thick brows, nice little beard situation… diamonds in his ears. We pulled up to a red light, and I looked away, picking up my cell to finally do what had caused the accident anyway.

  I blocked Les’ number.

  “That’s smart. You shouldn’t be fucking with a nigga you couldn’t call to come pick you up.”

  My eyes went wide as I looked up, but his eyes – which had obviously been in my business – were already back on the road as the light changed.

  “What’s your name?” I asked him, staring until he finally gave me the courtesy of a glance in my direction, giving me a good glimpse of deep brown eyes as we passed through a well-lit intersection.

  “Pierre. Why?”

  I raised an eyebrow at him. “Why? Um… I’m in your car at three in the morning, getting a ride home. Your name is the least of things I should know about you.”

  “You’re acting like I initiated any of this,” he countered. “If anything, my ass should be the one worried about a setup.”

  “I don’t set people up.”

  “So you say.”

  I would’ve been annoyed if he hadn’t shot me another glittery smile – curiosity took over instead. The luxury car, the diamond drip… that face.

>   Who the hell is this man?

  I was uniquely positioned in this city to know a lot of people who didn’t know me – it came with the territory. But this one… I’d never seen.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Logan,” I answered, leaving out my surname, like he had. I wasn’t expecting his response to just my first though.

  He… laughed.

  “Uh… what’s funny?” I asked, frowning. “Something wrong with my name?”

  “Nah, shorty. You just… look like a Logan. It’s hella fitting, and it was funny to me.”

  That only made me frown harder. “What does a Logan look like?”

  “Spoiled. Bougie,” he answered, so matter-of-factly that it cemented my annoyance.

  “Says a man named Pierre with diamonds in his mouth on a fucking Tuesday,” I countered, crossing my arms.

  He laughed harder. “You’re right… that’s a fair observation, and I can own my shit. Can you?”

  “What exactly am I owning?”

  “Being spoiled.”

  “You don’t know me.”

  “But I can tell,” he countered. “Let me guess – your daddy bought that BMW you were driving, and that’s why you didn’t want to get insurance involved. If it’s still there in the morning, you can pay out of your pocket to have it towed and fixed before he even notices.”

  I let out a huff. “Honestly… yes. But I could’ve bought it myself. And he doesn’t pay for the insurance either, it’s just… our agent is a family friend.”