by Cassie Mae
I see it seconds before it happens. The warning is right on the tip of my tongue. There’s a puddle the size of Texas in front of her feet. The trucker doesn’t see a damn thing other than the curve of the road in front of him. And the eighteen-wheeler barrels through that puddle at about forty-five miles per hour, sending that water twelve feet into the air.
Her hands fly up to protect her face, and the water splashes across her entire body. I reach out, getting my finger into her back belt loop, and I pull her to where I’m standing. She trips on her bad foot and topples backward into me before she rights herself.
She’s covered. Mud from bottom to top, dripping down her hair and off her chin. She slides her glasses off, and her eyes and mouth pop open. The smallest sound escapes her lips, almost like a dog realizing that it’s not getting any table scraps. And something kicks me hard in the stomach. It nudges at my chest and makes it incredibly difficult to see straight. The corners of my mouth turn up, and a gutful of laughter pushes from my throat.
“Stop!” she says, and her lips fight to stay in a straight line. She runs both her hands over the front of her hoodie, splashing muddy water at our feet. My stomach gets kicked again with another round of laughter…though as I let my gaze drift over her body, up and down across the muddy splatters and the clinging wetness of the oversized hoodie, I think more than just amusement is beating my gut.
I’ve never seen anyone look so damn adorable.
The thought catches me off guard. Almost pulls me down the storm drain with all her stuff. Adorable is the most terrifying adjective in the English language, especially right here, right now.
Adorable means a thousand times more than sexy.
Sexy women I can handle. Sexy women are the ones I want to charm the pants off of. Sexy women are like Carletta Ocean—I can see them under me, backs arched and hair spread out against the sheets.
But adorable women…
I avoid adorable women. I run for the hills, leaving Jace-shaped holes everywhere I go. Adorable women hypnotize you with their innocent-looking grins and big doe eyes. They’re the ones that catch you in their snares, holding on to your heart and squeezing it too tight when they cry or get hurt. Then squeeze it even harder when they’re happy or excited.
They squeeze it the hardest when they are frustrated as hell.
And I can almost feel Shay’s hand wrap around my ticker, nails digging into the organ as it drums louder and louder in my ears.
I have got to get my ass on a plane. Now.
Dropping her belt loop, I take three steps back. The rain pelts the top of my head, beating against my skull while I try—and fail—to think of anywhere for us to use a phone. My eyes keep drifting over her muddy oversized clothing, and I see that tidal wave on repeat, making a laugh rumble up through my gut again.
“Stop laughing!” she says, lips twitching and pulling…beating my stomach to bits as she fights a smile. Shay’s always trying not to laugh around me. She told me during our third scene together.
SHAY, SCENE THREE: Setting: opening-night party my sophomore year at NYU. We’d kept our distance after she thwapped me across the head during scene two. She was a junior-year business major, and I was a freshman theater major. So we didn’t run into each other much outside the one class we shared. She was all work and no play while I sailed in the opposite direction. So it came as an entertaining shock when I spotted her across the room.
She was dancing with one of my buds, Alec. I remember thinking that if anyone could get in with Shay, he’d have the best chance. Alec’s soft-spoken and never sticks his foot in his mouth by being an ass. He only fumbles in the nerdy/geeky way girls are into now. He had his hands on her hips, and she moved awkwardly against him. It was funny as hell.
When they stopped dancing, Alec leaned down to her ear and said something. She nodded and he wove his way through the crowd, leaving her there. Her hips still swayed to a beat that had to be only in her head, since it didn’t match what was playing. I grinned, tossed my beer back, and waded through the sea of girls I’d been chatting with.
“Nice to see you outside of the Internet,” I shouted at her over the music. Shay might have disappeared physically off of my radar, but it was impossible not to see her meme at least once a week.
Shay startled back into another dancing couple, and before she could fall to the floor I reached out and pulled her close. I remember her smelling like peppermint schnapps. It made my mouth water.
Okay…I was drunk. I keep reminding myself of that whenever I recall scene three. I was hammered, plastered, pissed…whatever you want to call it. So when I pulled her tight to my body and started dancing, I was out of my damn skull.
She was shorter than the girls I was used to, and at first I thought maybe that was why it felt so weird to dance with her. Then I realized she was trying to get away from me, pushing at my chest with her wide eyes bugging out.
“Ew, no,” she said, and honestly, it cracked me up.
I dropped my arms and took a step back. “Haven’t heard that one before.” It was a lie. I’d heard some version of that a few times.
“I’m surprised.”
And then, I swear, her eyes scoped me out. (It happened, even though she denies it now.)
“No, you’re not,” I said with a cocky grin. “I bet you find nothing repulsive about me.”
“Just everything that comes out of your mouth.”
She said it with a smile, so I kept my own grin on my face, moving a bit closer to her.
“But my body’s okay?”
“Is that all that matters to you?”
“Well, yeah,” I teased. She started to laugh, then pushed her lips together in a tight line.
“No,” she said, taking a step back. “Not going to give it to you.”
That perked my ears up. After all, it was our third encounter. See, scene three for Mr. Kickass Lead and whatever girl was playing opposite me was the scene that called for a tie-on-the-doorknob prop.
“Give what to me?” I said with thick innuendo. She gave me a heavy eye roll.
“A laugh.”
My brow furrowed. “A laugh…?”
“It’ll only encourage you.”
It did encourage me. “So you think I’m funny.”
She tugged at her red shirt, which, because of my drunken state, had me visualizing things that I’d never visualize sober. I found the short ball of fire, who clearly wasn’t interested, very interesting. I wanted to see what she looked like underneath all that red. See if she was as feisty without it as she was with.
“I’m here with someone,” she blurted. “So…shoo.”
She actually waved her fingers at me, and I laughed again but granted her request, backing up with my hands in surrender.
“All right, I’ll get.”
And right before I turned around to pick up a girl I had a better shot with, I caught her laughing to herself. I’ve sort of made it my job to make her laugh every scene we have. She’s made it her job to make sure I fail.
That’s when Shay went from Miss Maybe Gonna Happen to Miss Unlikely in Jace: The Movie’s script.
And in the present, Miss Unlikely finally wins the battle over laughter when another car drives past without even looking at us.
“We need to hit a gas station or something,” I say, getting a firm grip on my carry-on’s handle. “Get to an outlet.”
“Can’t be too far, right?” Shay starts down the road, but I reach out for that belt loop again.
“Wait in the car.”
“Don’t you dare leave me alone.”
“You can’t walk on that.” I point to her shaky ankle.
“I’m fine.”
I shake my head, lowering the handle on my carry-on and tossing the backpack straps I’ve never used on this thing over my arms. I keep the bag in front, then crouch down.
“Get on.”
“I can walk.”
“It’s either this or I’m ditching you.”
“You okay?”
“Huh?” she says, voice shaky as I straighten on my legs.
“Are you good?” I shout over the rain. Her cheek moves up and down against the back of my head, and I start us down the road. The mud squelches between our bodies as her boobs bump against my back. I’m so glad it’s raining, because there’s no way I could adjust The Man Downstairs if he tried to make an appearance.
11:21 A.M.
We’re definitely in Nevada. Nothing but dirt—or in this case, mud—for what feels like miles. It’s probably not that far, but with Shay on my back it feels like it.
Now, I’m beefed up. I’ve got the action-star arms and body I trained my ass off for. And Shay’s tiny. She’s a stick with little to hold on to. But I’m finding out that if you carry a stick across the desert in the rain for a few hours, it can turn your well-earned actor muscles into some sort of jelly shit.
When I finally see a gas station and Burger King, I force my wobbly muscles to jog across the mud just to get there faster.
Shay makes a throaty sound, tightening her grip on my waist. Her legs cross at the ankles, locking in place right over my zipper, right under my carry-on. My brain does that fuzzy, hyperaware crap again, and I have to blink a few times to get my eyes to focus on what’s around me and not the legs around me.
My hands twitch against her knees, and I pick up the pace before Woody starts thinking for me. Shay’s arms clench around my neck, cutting off my airway.
“Shay,” I croak, and let go of one of her knees to pat her wrist.
“I’m slipping!” she shrieks into my ear. I reach back, setting my hands dangerously close to her ass, and hoist her up. Our clothes squelch together, and the feel of her breasts sliding against my back sends my blood straight down and knocks my heart somewhere up into my ears.
I can’t breathe. And she isn’t even strangling me anymore.
I splash us through the parking lot, grateful for some pavement. Tempted to leave my soaked shoes outside so I don’t fall on my ass—and take Shay with me—I swing the door open and duck us inside.
“The last time I was this happy to see a Burger King was when I was fourteen.” Shay slides from my back, gingerly putting weight onto her sore ankle. Her eyes flick over her shoulder, giving me a once-over. “Oh,” she says with an apologetic laugh. “You okay?”
I nod at the ground as my breathing somewhat returns. At least enough for me to remember I just carried the girl across the abnormally wet desert. I try to be a man and not collapse on the blue and white tiled floor of the home of the Whopper, but I can’t stop my carry-on from crashing down on my foot.
“Let’s sit down. Find an outlet to charge our phones.” She reaches out like she’s going to help me across the room, but stops midair—she can wrap her legs around my waist, but touching my arm is too intimate. I give her a half smile and nod toward the booth near the fountain drinks where an outlet peeks out. She starts limping her way over, and I follow, shoving my bag across the floor with my foot because my energy is shot to hell. Shay and I leave a trail of rainwater behind us before she slides into the booth and props her foot up.
“How’s it feel?” I ask.
“I’m fine.”
I shake my head, trying not to wince at the overworked muscles as I crouch by her ankle. “You’re always ‘fine.’ ” I tap the swollen skin and a sharp breath slips through her teeth.
Droplets of rain are scattered across her lips. One is snaking its way down her chin. I watch it, confused by the warmth spreading over my very cold body, until it falls onto the thick, wet hoodie of mine that she’s wearing.
“See,” she says with a strained voice. “Totally fine.”
I tear my eyes away from the moisture on her lips and focus on her ankle. “You need ice.”
“I need a working phone.”
I hand her my cell and charger from my bag. “And a chill pill.”
A small laugh tumbles from her lips, and the sound does something weird to my chest. It pulls at the corner of my mouth, making me grin.
“Hang tight,” I say, “I’m getting you ice.”
“I need Coke.”
“I was kidding on the chill pill.”
She chucks a napkin at me. “I meant the drink, smart-ass.”
“Well, I love you too.”
Her eyes narrow, and she makes a face at me. I lean over her, plugging the phone in before stepping in line at the counter. Ice is free, I hope. I could try my card, even though the machine will mostly likely decline it. I maxed it out last week, and currently my checking account holds a whopping negative twenty bucks. Watch out, Bill Gates. I might catch up to you.
With a long what-the-hell sigh, I pull my credit card out and tap my thumb against my belt loop while I wait.
The lady in front of me finishes at the counter, so I step up.
“Any chance I can get just a bag of ice?”
The dude behind the counter looks under his cash register and pulls out a Ziploc.
“Help yourself.” He points at the fountain drinks. Then, before I can even chance swiping my card for anything, he invites the next person up. Customer service at its finest.
Half the ice spills into the drain as I try to catch it with the bag. Shay’s teeth have slipped over her bottom lip as she holds back her laughter at my show.
“I’m doing this for you.” I chuckle at her.
“I told you I’m fine.”
I get the bag zipped up and head back to the booth. My phone doesn’t look like it’s charged anything yet.
“Can you see if you can turn it on?” I ask, nodding to my cell while I open my carry-on for an extra shirt.
Shay taps on the side of the phone, but the screen doesn’t do anything. “Give it a minute, I guess.”
I nod. “Scoot over,” I tell her, and when she only gives me a “Huh?” look, I tuck my hand under her legs and slide in next to her, resting her bad ankle against my thigh.
“I…uh…I’m fi—”
“I know you’re fine.” I put the Ziploc of ice inside the sleeve of my shirt and press it gently against her ankle. Her body tenses slightly before completely relaxing. Good. She needs to chill out.
“So, you gonna call them up once my phone’s running?” I ask, trying to ignore the weight of her leg on mine, which is making heat run up and down my spine even though the ice is pressed against me too.
“Call who up?”
“Your agency.”
She snorts. “And tell them what? That the company credit card is now resting in the sewer?”
“Uh, yeah.” What else are we gonna do? “Can’t they pay for another rental or something? Get us to Vegas where our airline tickets are?”
“I can’t fly without my license. I’m pretty sure it went down the drain with the credit card.”
I almost hear the hallelujah chorus play. Adjusting her legs, I snake my hand into my damp jeans pocket and yank once, twice, three times before her license finally pops free.
“How about now? Feel like calling them up?”
Her eyes meet mine briefly before she darts them to the fountain drinks. A mom is filling up her kid’s Sprite, and when she leads him into the play area, Shay lets out a long breath and her head smacks the table.
“I’m in some serious horseshit,” she says into her lap. “Like, waist-deep cow pie.”
“Well, which is it? Horse or cow?” I grin, but all she does is lift her head and glare at me. Okay, so losing the company credit card isn’t exactly the best thing that can happen when you’re on the bottom of the totem pole, but it can happen to anyone. Especially if they’ve had the Monday from hell that we’ve had so far.
“I’ll tell them we got mugged,” I sug
gest. “Guy was eight feet tall. I saved your life…but not your purse.”
Shay shakes her head at her leg.
“No good?” I ask. “But I’m an actor. I’ve got this.”
“It won’t work.”
“All high and mighty about being honest?”
She flinches. “Not exactly. I’m…um…technically, I’m not supposed to have a company credit card.”
Something gets caught in my throat, and I end up with a coughing fit. “I’m sorry, what?”
She leans forward and gives me a tap on the back. “I’m a junior agent. I wasn’t even supposed to go to the premiere with you.”
“But you’re my agent—”
“Under Julie.”
Her eyes slide to our legs again as she leans back, and I really wish she’d knock it off. Every time she looks down my neck gets so warm I feel like I’m gonna pass out.
“So you begged her to let you go…just so you could see me in a tux?” I say, knowing my big head will get her to stop relaxing so much into me.
“Wow. It’s like you’re reading my mind.” She raises her middle finger. “What am I thinking now?”
“You wanna fool around?”
She jabs my arm hard, and I chuckle and adjust her leg off my junk, since it’s made its way there again. “All right, explain then…’cause I’m lost.”
“Julie wanted me to scope out any talent at the premiere and come back with a list of potential clients. She lent me her company credit card.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Then that’s really on her.”
“She trusted me.” Her shoulders lift slightly, and she watches some guy walk past us to the restroom. “After the premiere was a bust, I caught the news on Carletta’s new movie and how they were still looking for a leading man. I called them up, sent in one of your tapes, and Carletta watched The Walking Stiff. They contacted me within three hours. Three hours, Jace. That’s insane.” She tosses her arms out, nearly knocking the girl in the booth next to us upside the head. I take her wrists and lower them back down.
“I know this already,” I tell her. Shay leans forward, ankle inching up my thigh again. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she was doing it on purpose.
