by Kacey Shea
It doesn’t bother me though—not enough to pick a fight—because I’m already inside the bathroom, lock flipped shut and pants down. My bladder practically sighs in relief, but it’s short-lived.
An aggressive knock at the door interrupts my second of peace. “Almost done? I really need to shower!” Jenni shouts.
Sharing a two-bedroom, one-bath apartment with four others is a special kind of hell. The rent comes as close to affordable as Los Angles gets, but sometimes I question whether it’s worth the sacrifice. Hell, these days I question most of my decisions, including the one to up and leave my comfortable life in Chicago for a shot at following my dreams. I quickly wash my hands and open the door so Jenni can get ready for her auditions. “Sorry. Break a leg today.”
“Thanks, Rae!” Jenni smiles as she and I switch places.
I make a quick stop in my room, trying not to notice as Kari Ann struts around in her undies. My roommates also have no qualms about walking around naked, or close to it, something I’m still adjusting to. I grew up with a big brother and fairly conservative parents, in the Midwest where such shenanigans might result in frozen nips for more than half the year. “Bye, Kari Ann.” I wave, my gaze averted.
She doesn’t answer.
I sling my bag over one shoulder and check to make sure the keys are inside before I tug the handle of my rolling cart toward the front door. It’s currently loaded down with every makeup brush and beauty product I own. “Have a good day!” I call out to no one in particular. My roommates aren’t the friendliest people I’ve encountered since moving, but I’m still the new girl. They don’t know me. Not including Jenni, the others have been pretty cold, but I try not to take it personally. Besides, I’m paying for a place to stay, not friendship.
I didn’t move to LA to find a best friend anyway. I’m here to claim my independence. To build a career. To pursue the life I’ve always wanted. Oh, and to escape the aftermath of a horrible breakup.
Yep. I’m that woman. The one who needed to hit rock bottom to realize how much life had passed her by. Stuck in a career I never wanted. In a city with winters so frigid I was miserable at least four months a year. Dating one rich, pompous asshole after another until I woke up, twenty-nine and alone—once again—and said, fuck it. I wasn’t going to waste another day doing meaningless shit.
Who knows? Maybe one day I’ll thank Ethan for breaking my heart. Without him I would never have packed up all my life’s possessions—a small enclosed trailer full—and made the drive across a half dozen states to start a fresh life. Okay, that’s pushing it. Hopefully I’ll never have to thank him, because I never want to see his cheating, pretentious face again.
I only wish living my best life looked a little more glamorous. A little less one-step-away-from-being-broke-and-homeless.
Unlocking the trunk to my car, Iron Maiden as I named her years ago, I arrange the cases of makeup and supplies so they won’t tip over. It’s a system I have down pat, placing my collapsible roller cart inside last. Sweat beads on my upper lip and brow, the California mid-morning summer sun in full force. There isn’t a cloud in the sky, and I can’t even complain, even though my makeup is about to be toast, because this is what I came here for. Sunshine. Warmth. A new life.
“Hey, lady! You moving or not?” a man shouts from an idling car.
“Sorry!” I hold up one finger to indicate he should wait, then slam my trunk shut and slide around to start up Iron Maiden. The Buick is as old as I am, with rust marring her silver paint, but I wouldn’t dream of trading her in. Not that I could afford something better.
It’s okay. It doesn’t bother me. She runs just fine, even if the AC is mostly shot. The engine turns over with a gentle stutter and rumble, then I’m on my way toward today’s movie set, an indie film where they’ve hired me to do makeup. Yeah, that’s the thought that paints a smile on my face, even when I hit bumper-to-bumper traffic on the interstate. The universe might try to kill my buzz, but I refuse to let it ruin the good thing I have going. Each week I’m building my client list. Booking new jobs, working on films, photoshoots, and filling in the odd hours with “traveling makeup artist” appointments booked via a new app. Technology is a beautiful thing.
With the windows rolled down, I sing along to an old Backstreet song, ignoring the funny looks I get. Whatever. They might act like they don’t love this song, but I bet they know all the words. If it came on while they were in the shower, they’d sing along.
I slow for another stall in traffic. Sing another line to the chorus. Wait for the car ahead to inch forward. The brake lights clear and for the first time all morning I reach the speed limit. The cars in front pull forward, creating a safe distance to accelerate further. Only, when I press my foot to feed Iron Maiden gas, she gives a little jolt before the engine stumbles. “Shit.” The needle on my dash drops, the rpms abnormally diving. “Come on, baby,” I soothe the car, but as I tap the gas, the engine cuts completely.
“No, no, no, no, no . . . Shit! No!” This is not happening. This cannot happen. I glance to the time on my cell, and signal as I roll to a stop in the emergency lane. I wait a moment, offer up a silent prayer, then try turning the key but there’s no rumble to life. “Oh, come on.”
There’s no one to call. I’m already pinched for time. Hell, with as far as I have to go, I’m not sure I can even afford an Uber. I need to be on set in thirty minutes. I also really need the paycheck. “Don’t let me down. Not when I need you most.” I’m no mechanic. I don’t know what else to do, so I blow my bangs from my forehead, reach down to pop the hood, and make my way out to assess the damage. This is not how I pictured today going.
3
Jude
Another day, another dollar. Another unique delivery, along with a generous finder’s fee. I’m driving my black Escalade today, the one with the Limo tint windows. I feel exceptionally badass in this beast. With my mirrored sunglasses and tailored black suit, I resemble the hero in an action film destined to save the world, or run a drug cartel. This vehicle doesn’t have the same zip and go as one of my sports cars, but none of the fuel efficient cars attempt to cut me off, which makes for a smoother ride—my exact intent given the crate strapped to the floor of the middle row.
I ease off the gas at the rush of red brake lights ahead. Both the driver on my right and the one to my left slam down on their horns and curse at the sudden slow of traffic. Rookies. Traffic in LA is a bitch. Plain and simple. Getting upset over it only gives a person high blood pressure. Life’s too precious to get pissed every time there’s traffic.
I crank up my tunes and recline my seat, settling in for the delay. I was up before the sun to receive today’s delivery of precious cargo in anticipation of a long ride. I try to avoid LAX altogether, but given the circumstances it couldn’t be helped. Reaching into my center console, I pop open the bag of candy I picked up from the gas station and rip off the wrapper. I check my reflection in the mirror and chuckle. The white paper stick protruding from my pursed lips definitely kills my badass vibe, but I can’t find it in me to care. I have a sweet tooth, not to mention a bit of an oral fixation. Sue me.
Twenty minutes and five lollipops later, I inch toward the vehicle responsible for today’s traffic jam. I kinda feel sorry for the poor sucker. Drivers ahead throw up their middle fingers and shout obscenities as they finally pass.
I get ready to increase my speed too when I’m rendered temporarily immobile.
Whoa. Fuck me.
Who is this? Standing at the side of the freeway like a desert mirage pulled directly from my most erotic fantasies, I can’t take my eyes off her. She’s fucking gorgeous, even if she looks ten seconds from crying.
Her car—no, more like boat—is parked in the narrow emergency lane, but the Buick’s wide back end sticks out into the right lane—the cause of this little traffic hiccup. The hood is popped, but this beauty in distress paces near the rear of her busted down vehicle. With her phone to her ear and her attention on
the vehicle, I take a moment to study her features. Long dark hair. Tan skin. Curves for days. Her lips, painted in a ruby red that matches the tight skirt of her dress, is reminiscent of a pinup girl, and stirs a wave of desire below my belt.
I’m jolted from my perusal by the blare of a car horn behind me. Shit. While I’ve been staring, traffic has moved, but instead of closing the empty roadway before me, I flip on my hazards and pull in behind her.
She leans against the concrete barrier wall, distress in her scowl as I step out of my SUV and maneuver safely to stand before her. Her hand grips her cell phone. Her gaze is wary.
“Car trouble?”
“Yeah.”
“Can I help?”
“Unless you’re a mechanic”—her gaze travels down my designer three-piece suit—“and I’m gonna guess that’s a no, then not really.”
“It’s dangerous out here.”
“Yeah, I’ve been trying to get a tow.” Her lips press together and that expression—the one in which she looks seconds from crying, is back.
I take a step closer. “Let me guess. No one picking up?”
“Yeah, that and one guy said he couldn’t get here for another four hours.” She drags in a breath and blinks rapidly. I don’t know her, but something about the gesture tugs at my heartstrings. I want to take away her stress. “I have to be on set in thirty minutes.”
Ah. I should’ve guessed. She’s too beautiful. “Actress?”
“God, no!” She laughs, but it’s humorless. She glances at her vehicle before meeting my gaze again. “Anyway, I appreciate you stopping, but I’ve got this.”
A smirk grows across my lips. I like her little miss independent ruse. It’s adorable, even if it’s unnecessary. “You don’t look like you do.”
“Excuse me?” Her nostrils flare, her eyebrows shoot up, and one delicate hand goes to her cocked hip. If she could breathe fire, I’d be torched. “Might be shit luck, but I can certainly handle calling a tow truck without the help of a big, strong man.” Those last words fly from her lips with the assistance of an exaggerated eye roll.
Hmm. This damsel in distress isn’t playing games. She’s not looking for a savior, either. With those two realizations my infatuation with her grows tenfold. I’d even bet she has no clue who I am. I have to fight back my smile as I meet her challenging glare. “But you’ll be late for work.”
Her jaw clenches. “I’ll have to call out.”
“See. Told you I could help.” I snap my fingers and flash her my most beloved smile—the one that always gets me what I want. “Where you working today? Americana or JD Studios?”
She blinks, annoyed, and maybe a little impressed. I’ve dated a few actresses in my day, and it’s not as if most locals don’t already know where all the big film studios are. “Americana.”
“Perfect.” I’m headed to Burbank, and Americana is on the way. Besides, I’m hours ahead of schedule. It’s no hardship playing chauffeur to this sexy woman. It gives me an excuse to win her over, get her number, and if I’m lucky, spend the night showing her how big and strong I really am.
Her gaze narrows, her tone wary with suspicion. “How is that perfect?”
I dip my chin to my SUV. “Get in. I’m giving you a ride.”
She snorts, a real and actual snort, then crosses her hands over her chest. “I’m not getting in your car.”
I might be irritated at her defiance if her tits didn’t look so good pressed together. My eyes want to stay there, but I glance back to her scowl before I start sporting a full hard-on. There’re two ways to play this. One would be to charm her, which, given her responses so far, chances aren’t in my favor. The other? It’s fun and a little mean. I smile just thinking about her reaction as I further rile her up. Both have about the same odds, but I’ve never been risk adverse. “Oh, come on, sweetheart. We’re both adults here. No need to play hard to get.” I allow a chuckle to escape my lips at her incredulous gasp, then add a wink for good measure. “When I give you a ride, you’ll enjoy every second.”
4
Rachel
My mouth falls open and I sputter at his brash arrogance. “You’re kidding. Right?”
“Not even a little.” He laughs again and sweeps his arm toward his ride. “Get in. I left the AC running.”
An incredulous scoff leaves my lips and I shake my head. “Uh, I’m sorry, but I don’t get in cars with strangers.”
“What if there’s candy involved?”
Who says shit like that? He’s got to be joking. Or he’s crazy and planning to abduct me right off the side of the freeway. I grate my teeth and stare so fiercely any sane man would run away.
Apparently not this one. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his dress slacks and shrugs. “Puppies, then?”
I roll my eyes, a burst of nervous laughter escaping my lips. “Who doesn’t love puppies?”
“Oh, I have a treat for you.” He rubs his hands together, devious as his smirk.
I should be alarmed, but the look rather suits him. Shit. Zac Efron made Ted Bundy look real good. No matter how charming this man is, I can’t trust him. “I am not taking a ride from you.”
“Oh, come on.” He takes a causal step forward, closing the space between us.
I take a step backward. A horn blares, a rush of air practically knocking me on my ass. My body stiffens, realization coursing through my veins at how close that car came to hitting me or one of our vehicles.
He grabs my elbow and tugs me back towards the cement barrier wall. His gaze is sincere as he shouts above the traffic noise. “Get in the car and I’ll take you wherever you need to go. We’re sitting ducks out here.”
He’s not wrong. But I’m still warry. “You could be a murderer. A rapist. A psychopath.”
“You’re in luck.” His smile pulls wide. “I’m none of those.”
A scoff leaves my lips. “And I’m supposed to believe you?”
“Google me. Or text my contact info to your family members.” He shifts his weight to his side in a bored manner, nodding to where my cell is clenched in my hand. “Either way, we’re losing valuable time if you’re trying to get to Americana anytime soon.”
He’s right. God, I hate that he’s right. What option do I really have? I can wait for a tow, but I’ll miss the day of work. I’ll ruin any future opportunity of working with the director, and in this industry reputation is everything. People talk.
If I accept his offer, I could end up dead and buried in a shallow grave. Or I could get to work and come back to deal with Iron Maiden tonight. I’ll still have my job. I won’t burn any bridges. I can’t believe I’m actually considering this. It’s crazy, right?
I unlock my phone. “What’s your number?”
“Here.” He takes my phone and types on the screen. Seconds later his pocket rings. Satisfaction beams from his smug grin as he hands back my cell.
“What’s your name?” I lift my phone, snap a photo of his face, save the contact, and send it to my brother. It’s not a complete guarantee of my safety, but I’ve watched enough true crime documentaries to leave digital evidence of my last known whereabouts.
He laughs, and when I don’t move, his eyes lift in surprise. “Oh, right. You really don’t know. Jude. And you are . . .”
“Rachel.” I appraise his face, looking for something that shoots off warning bells or screams murderer, but come up empty. It isn’t until this moment that I appreciate his appearance. Really take him in. Hot damn. This man is heart stopping. His suit is tailored to what has to be a spectacular body. His deep, soulful brown eyes would be easy to get lost in. But it’s his hair that completely steals the show for me.
The length of his brown locks are long enough to tug on. They’re styled and slicked back with gel, but a few more inches and the man could rock a top knot. I’ve always wanted to be with a man with hair like that. My thighs clench with the possibility. My Thor obsession knows no bounds. God, I’m getting turned on over a stranger’s hair
. No. No, ma’am. I am not allowed to be turned on by this stranger. The cocky, arrogant and infuriating man who reminds me all too well of every man I’ve ever dated. “What’s your last name, Jude?”
“Lawrence.”
I hold up a finger while I wait for my phone’s search engine to load. I don’t expect to find much, but to my utter shock, my browser fills with photos of him—Jude Lawrence—the man staring at my astonished face. My jaw drops open. “You’re famous.”
He shakes his head. “Hardly. I do happen to keep the company of some well-knowns in the entertainment industry.” He’s being modest. Downplaying his popularity completely. I know because I’m scrolling through dozens and dozens of gallery photos with his face. Timberlake. Pratt and his new wife. Musicians. Actors. Freaking Oprah. Jesus, does he know everyone?
“Breathe, Rachel. It’s not that big of a deal.”
My eyes widen as more photos load. He fraternizes with enough of the rich and famous to get invited to Grammy’s. Fuck, Emmy’s too. “You’re like really famous.” No wonder he’s such a cocky bastard.
“Something like that. Let’s go.” The muscles of his throat clench, his smile gone. He’s annoyed. Maybe embarrassed? But why? I don’t know him well enough to understand. Fuck me. He’s being mysterious. It’s a catnip I can’t deny. Like an addict, my body thrills in response to the hint of his drug.
I want him. I’m attracted to him. I don’t even know him, yet I imagine how good it’d feel to have his face between my legs. Shit. Is this how Stockholm syndrome begins? “Wait.” I turn to Iron Maiden.
“Come on, sugar.” Jude runs his hands through his hair. “Enough with the excuses.”
“It’s not that.” I walk to the back of my Buick and pop the trunk. I turn to his expectant gaze and pull out the first case of many. “My makeup.”
5
