by P. Dangelico
“You haven’t met him?”
“No. He’s never come to any of Aidan’s premieres.”
Hitting pause on my sugar overload, I place the plate down and throw myself on the double bed, staring at the cracks in the ceiling as I contemplate how to answer.
“Older than his brother––maybe thirty-six or seven––and pushy, with a touch of serial killer sprinkled in for funsies.”
“You had me at serial killer.”
It’s safe to say Jess and I have complete opposite taste in men.
“Not my jam at all but… he’s, you know, got that thing.”
“Which thing? There are so many things to choose from.”
Objectively speaking, the man is hot. I can do that, be honest about the guy’s physical gifts in spite of our less than friendly introduction. Was he obnoxious? Yes. Is he going to be a serious pain in my ass while he’s here? Undoubtedly. Am I attracted to him? Hell no. And yet…
“Big dick energy.”
“That’s my favorite thing. So Cruella was right.”
“I feel like I’m twelve when he looks at me. I literally regressed into a babbling, fidgeting mess in minutes.” An uncomfortable pressure builds in my chest. It feels like I swallowed broken glass, which requires immediate soothing, so I shovel another spoonful of Mona’s cake in my mouth. “Ith deprething.” There’s not much that makes me depressed, but learning that all the supposed work I’ve done on myself drops me without notice as quickly as it did all because of a man qualifies. “I thought I was a grown-up.”
“What was he doing there?”
“You don’t know?” I ask the very same person who got me into this situation.
“No.”
“He’s staying here––at the ranch. And from what I gathered from his long, hard stares and a handful of words, he’s here as his brother’s personal pit bull.”
“This sounds promising. Maybe you can get some shake ’n bake while he’s there.”
The eye roll this earns is nearly painful. “There will be no shake and bake.”
“Why not? Are you seeing anyone?”
“Yes. I am. And he’s very possessive of me.”
No. I’m not. Mostly because I’m still mourning the total destruction of my carefully-held beliefs. The ones Jaime torched with a flamethrower before he walked away.
I used to be a hopeful romantic. Finding out that the man who I thought was my knight in shining armor was a really a spineless fraud turned me into a cynic. That experience doesn’t exactly inspire me to run out and do it again. And when I say do it again, I mean invest all my emotions into another person who will inevitably ghost me when I need him most.
“Exciting. Anyone worth discussing?”
“I discuss him all the time. He’s on the short side with a missing eye. His name is Billy. He’s a dwarf goat––”
“You’re hopeless,” she says over me which makes me chuckle.
Probably.
“I’m officially on a man-fast,” I declare. Anything to discourage this conversation.
“Tried it. Bad idea. You get extra thirsty on those.”
“The timing’s not good now anyway. I’m too busy with the farm and the three-ring circus you dropped on my doorstep.”
“You’re almost thirty,” my best friend announces like it’s a terminal illness. “The timing is always right for someone your age. If we were in the middle of a nuclear Holocaust, the timing would still be right. In fact, we could be headed for an extinction level event and the timing for you would be perfect––”
“You sound more and more like your Tita every day,” I say, referring to her grandmother. “How is she?”
“Bugging me constantly about helping her manage her social media footprint. Her exact words. She has almost as many followers on Twitter as I do and gets DMs for dates, I shit you not.”
I laugh. “Did she ride you about your marital status?”
“Yes. Which is why I have a date tomorrow night.”
This is legitimately big news. Jess is super picky about who she dates.
“Really?”
“Really.”
A small pang of envy hits me. Jess hasn’t exactly cruised through life unscathed. She’s had her own share of trouble and has good reason to be gun shy. Or more precisely, guy shy. The only one she’s ever had feelings for used and cast her aside as quickly as yesterday’s trending news.
And yet after everything she’s been through, she’s still willing to get out there and give it another go. Maybe hope truly does spring eternal for some people.
“When I grow up, I wanna be just like you, Jessica Martinez. Who is this lucky dude?”
“Someone who’s going to get a big Netflix star to sign with me.”
She just threw cold water on my simmering excitement for her. Scratch that about her being hopeful. Mental note: plan an intervention for ruthless, career-obsessed BFF stat. “You’re hopeless.”
“Probably. But you’re no better. Back to Aidan Hughes’ brother. Think of him as part of your therapy––you can use him to scrub away the stain on humanity you almost married.”
Jess is not a fan of my ex. She never warmed up to Jaime in the first place. For the three years we were together, Jaime was Voldemort. Come to think of it, she’s been calling him that since we broke up. That and human garbage… and stain on humanity. Clearly, there’s no love lost there.
Thing is, by some unspoken agreement, we rarely, if ever, discussed him while Jaime and I were together. And even when we did, it was always in a superficial manner. Like we both knew that it had the potential to tear our friendship apart, so we pretended the problem didn’t exist. Now I wish we had argued about it. It could’ve potentially saved me a lot of wasted time and tears.
“Trust me, I’m not his type.”
The look on Shane Hughes’ face when I threw my body between his and the front door of my guesthouse was absolute proof. And to think I used to pride myself on being levelheaded in a moment of crisis. If he had a mixed opinion of me before, that moment cleared it right up. That and the stench of wet donkey rising off of me.
“You don’t know that,” Jess argues.
Girl’s got my back. But if nothing else, I am a pragmatist.
“I still order soda when I go out to dinner, and he looks like he knows the difference between single malt Scotch and whatever the alternative is. He’s way out of my league. Or I’m out of his league. Whatever, you get the point. There’s a major league issue.”
He’s a grizzly bear and I’m a collie. And we’ve already established that inter-species dating (or hook-ups) is a dangerous practice destined for catastrophic failure.
There’s a lengthy pause of silence. “Wait… you don’t know there are five types of Scotch?”
“No… You do?”
“Of course, I do. It’s covered in talent management 101. You’d be surprised at the useless and potentially criminal shit I know. If I Googled half of what I hear and see on any given day, the FBI would be kicking down my door.”
Jess has shared enough wild stories about the agency for me to know she’s not exaggerating. “Man, you are living the dream.”
“Blame the game, not the gamer. I work with werewolves jacked on Viagra disguised as respectable businessmen. And those are the nice guys. A girl’s gotta compete.”
I dump the now-empty dish on the bedside table and shut the lamp off, a shaft of moonlight coming through the window casts shadows in my new, much smaller bedroom. “And you had the gall to call my life an episode of Naked and Afraid.”
“Best job on the planet.”
“You scare me sometimes.”
“Not as much as I scare myself.”
Chapter 4
The convoy of cars starts early the following day. Early for lazy entitled movie stars with a predilection for crime. Not early for me; I’ve been up since 5 a.m., dragging my tired ass around to care for the animals. I didn’t even get the chance to shower before th
ey started coming down the driveway at 10.
“Here we go,” Mona says, bursting through the screen door and onto the front porch.
On the other hand, it looks like the owner of this fine establishment has had plenty of time to shower… among other things. “Are you wearing fake eyelashes?”
“Yeah, they’re great. Aren’t they?”
She’s actually excited about this near-certain disaster in the making. I don’t know whether to feel sympathy or shake some sense into her. She put on a dress for these people and her signature rhinestone Kippys belt. I’m leaning toward shaking some sense.
“Remind yourself that he’s a bad man,” I feel the need to say out loud while the two of us stand side by side, staring into the distance like we’re in eighteenth-century England waiting for the Lord and Lady of the manor to return home.
“Will do.”
“You are not to trust him.”
“Never,” she coos indulgently. Her glossy lips spread into a bright grin, dimples on full display. She fluffs her hair and runs her polished fingertips through the ends.
We’re doomed.
A Mercedes with all-black tinted windows is the first to pull up to the house. It’s followed closely by a silver Airstream trailer the size of a 747 Boeing jetliner hauled by a pickup truck. A black Range Rover is next. Pulling up the rear is a vintage Mustang Cobra, Shane Hughes behind the wheel.
Aidan Hughes steps out of the back of the Mercedes and the surprise is audible. I’m almost certain I just heard Mona suck in a breath. Not because of the earth-shattering beauty he’s known for or the blockbuster charisma that has people forking over their hard-earned dollars just to watch him do stuff on screen. Noooo. That is not why. The very opposite of that, in fact.
His light brown hair is in dire need of a cut, and frankly, a wash. Good rule of thumb: if I can tell from a distance that you’ve gone a week without holding a bottle of shampoo, then we have a problem. In addition to that, his face is covered in an unkempt beard, and he’s wearing a shapeless, faded US Army t-shirt with black track pants that have seen better days. I won’t mince words, he looks ripe enough for children and dogs to avoid him on a sidewalk. Heck, even vagrants.
I don’t doubt he’s had a tough couple of weeks, but this is dramatic. Even for an actor.
“Poor baby,” I hear Mona whisper.
This can’t go unchallenged so I turn to face her with a questioning glance.
“He’s obviously depressed,” she continues, hiding the last word behind her hand.
“Really?” I cynically drawl.
“Yes, really.” She shakes her head. “Look at him.”
My eyes focus on the ankle monitor he’s wearing and I’m reminded why he’s here. Jess told me he drove his fancy car into someone’s house, narrowly missing an old lady and her cat. In my past life, I would’ve been called out to the scene of the crime. The only thing saving him from my abject scorn is that he was neither high nor drunk and didn’t hurt anyone. I’ll chalk it up to stupidity for now. Until I know him better. In the meantime, I’ll reserve my sympathy for someone who deserves it.
“Look, I’m sorry he’s having a personal crisis of sorts––I get it,” I admit in a hushed voice, knowing what it feels like to get stuck in a dark place you don’t know how to crawl out of. “I really do. But cruising into someone’s living room isn’t the answer to any problem. He’s an insanely wealthy celebrity with the world at his disposal. He should’ve gotten help.”
My answer to his personal troubles is if you can’t help yourself, help someone else in need instead of acting recklessly.
“Maybe he doesn’t know how,” Mona muses out loud. Her kindness knows no limits. Then, gospel truth, she says, “He needs us.”
“This isn’t an episode of Touched By An Angel. What he needs is a shower, a shave, and a very good therapist.”
But who knows? Maybe she’s right. Maybe being here and helping with the rescues will reform him. Maybe he’s really misunderstood. Maybe he will surprise me in a good way.
Car doors open and slam shut. People pile out. A whirlwind of activity happens. Two men unhook the trailer from the pickup. Louis Vuitton suitcases get unloaded from the back of the Mercedes.
The door to the Mustang Cobra swings open and Shane Hughes slides out of the driver’s seat like he’s selling men’s deodorant to testosterone-deficient teenage boys, in slow motion and exuding more confidence than any one man should ever possess.
He just jolted me out of the narcolepsy I was experiencing only seconds ago. I’m suddenly awake and paying attention.
For instance, I’m keenly aware of the dark jeans hugging his butt. And the white t-shirt stretching across his chest and biceps. The leather cuff wrapped around one wrist? That doesn’t escape my notice. Neither does the chain that hangs out of the back pocket of his jeans attached to his belt. No one in their right mind would attempt to lift this guy’s wallet, but I dig the hint of danger it insinuates.
I declare that I’m on a man-fast and almost immediately, the universe, in its infinite wisdom, delivers this temptation to my doorstep. If I was into conspiracy theories, I’d be cooking one up right about now.
Eyes hidden under aviators, his head swivels right and left until he finds me and locks on. Then something strange happens… he tips his chin at me before walking off in the direction of the guesthouse with an army green duffel bag in hand.
Well this is awkward. The very last thing I expected to have on my Bingo card this year is an attraction to a stranger with a superiority complex. The shiver of excitement I get over such a small, insignificant gesture is really pathetic. For all I know, he could’ve been testing whether the joints in his neck were working properly.
Big picture, though, an amicable working relationship would make the next three months run a whole lot smoother. I can get down with it if he’s willing.
A small woman, no taller than five feet, with a severe red bob and a black designer suit and sunglasses approaches Aidan Hughes, and trailing right behind her is Jess. Naturally, it leads me to surmise that this must be the infamous Cruella.
The redhead’s mouth starts moving rapidly. What seems like an eternity later, Hughes finally deigns her with his attention, his glare flash frozen.
“Stop humping my leg, Jules. I’m not your bitch.”
Not even the smallest attempt to lower his voice. So maybe not so misunderstood.
Shaking off the insult as if it’s just another day at the office, Cruella marches toward me and Mona and stops at the foot of the porch stairs.
“Are either of you Mona Harris?”
“That’s me,” Mona pipes up. With a contagious smile plastered across her face, she rushes down to shake the woman’s hand.
“Jules Izkov. I’m Aidan’s agent.” She motions to a man with silver hair speaking to Aidan in hushed tones. “That’s Neil, his manager. Aidan decided to forgo his personal chef and has arranged for meals to be delivered from the spa resort. I take it you can receive them for him?”
“I’d love to receive for him.”
Have mercy. I can only hope Jules doesn’t pick up on the dirty subtext.
She lifts her glasses just enough to get a good look at me. “You must be Jessica’s friend.”
“Nice to finally meet you,” I answer, because my daddy raised me right.
“Since Aidan will be spending most of the day with you, we should probably go over some details.”
“Um, okay,” I mumble, already uncomfortable with this enormous responsibility weighing on my shoulders.
“First, I need to remind you that you all signed an NDA. If I ever hear or see anything disparaging his good name in the media, I will sue you into extinction. Don’t tell your friends and family he’s here. This isn’t an opportunity for you to launch your next career.”
Lovely. “No need to––”
“Let me finish,” she snaps, cutting me off. “Now that we have that out of the way… Aidan will be helpin
g you care for the animals, as discussed in our emails.”
By the looks of him, something tells me Aidan Hughes isn’t going to handle mucking out stalls very well. I wonder if he’s ever been around large animals. Some people can find them intimidating.
“But more importantly,” she steps forward, “I need you to take pictures and video of Aidan. With the animals, working on the farm, whatever it may be—anything we can use for his public relations campaign. Make sure nothing gives away his location or it’ll turn into a clusterfuck of paparazzi around here.” Gaze narrowed, she watches him approach. “But try to document anything we can use to rehab his image.”
Marvelous. I have a hard enough time posting something every day on the Mother Goose Rescue accounts for our patrons and donors who love to see the animal’s progress. With everything else I need to do, I can now add this to my list. “With all due respect, I take care of close to twenty animals. I don’t have the time––”
“You’re responsible for him while he’s here,” she says, cutting me off. “So yes, essentially you’re his assistant and personal photographer. Take the video and photos and post them. That’s what we paid you to do.”
I was under the impression the money was a donation and not a payoff. Though, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. There’s a reason Jess calls her Cruella.
“I thought he was bringing an assistant with him?” Fingers crossed I missed something and this person is on his or her way.
“Aidan’s pared his life down. He’s back to basics, so he left the trappings of his fame in L.A.”
He’s living in a quarter-million-dollar trailer for the next three months, so forgive me if I call donkey dung on this one.
“Jules, heel. Stop harassing the ladies.” Aidan Hughes flashes his signature million-dollar grin at Mona. His beard parts, highlighting his perfect, optic-white teeth and the ability to disarm all the straight women of the free world without any effort whatsoever. “Pleasure. Aidan Hughes at your service, ma’am.”
“Trust me, the pleasure is all mine,” Mona returns, and I have to forcibly stop myself from rolling my eyes.
