Queen of the Universe (In Love in the Limelight Book 2)

by Geralyn Corcillo

  My head snaps back. How does he do that? Psychoanalyze me at the fewest words? It's not like we're twins. And he's not even right. “Lonely?” I echo. “Beat, maybe. Exhausted, sure.”

  “I hear you,” he concedes, but I can tell that he still doesn't believe me.

  “Well,” I admit. “I guess I am lonely. For you. To put me in a head lock and give me a noogie.”

  Colin laughs, and this time I believe what he's emoting. “I'll be out just after graduation.”

  “Yeah,” I snort. “Squeeze me in between Cabo and the beginning of summer practices.”

  “Hey, I'm the coach. I can take an extra week if I need to.”

  “Right,” I agree. “Just like I'm the showrunner so I think I'll take a week at Club Med.”

  “Exac—No! Mom!”

  “Hi, Lola!”

  It's my mother.

  Holy hell—I completely forgot Mom said she was going down to New Orleans to visit Colin. Still, Colin called me with Mom in the vicinity?

  “Oh, Mom.” I say. I sit down. Right on the floor. “Hi.” I slump my back against the wall of the kitchen island, hunkering under the overhanging countertop.

  “Lola,” The Indomitable Charlotte Scott trills. “I am so glad I caught you. I have been dying to tell you all about Jacey's wedding.”

  “Mom,” I say, cutting her off. I press my feet hard against the tile floor and brace myself. “I don't know where you were my entire childhood, but I don't like Jacey and vice versa. We never got along.”

  “But the wedding—”

  “And can you show some compassion and sensitivity? Or at least pretend you care? I'm trying to get my pilot shot.”

  Charlotte Scott tsks and sighs. Theatrically. “Oh, so it's not going well?” She asks this in what she thinks of as her Soothing Voice.

  “It's going really well, actually. But it's a lot of work and concentration.”

  “Well,”she sighs, “I imagine it is going to be very hard. I've always told you that you don't have much of a sense of humor.”

  “It's not a comedy, Mom. It's a drama.”

  “But I thought it was Wendy Hunter's new show.”

  I don't know which is worse—if she is doing it on purpose or if she is just that clueless about my life. “It's actually my show, Mom. I created it. Then I got Wendy Hunter to star in it.”

  Charlotte Scott laughs. “Well. Leave it to you, Lola. You get America's biggest comedy star and put her in a drama.”

  “You keep getting it mixed up, Mom. That's worrisome. Have you heard that fish oil is effective when your memory starts going?”

  Charlotte audibly sucks in a breath but says nothing.

  “Here,” I offer, “I'll tell you again. I wrote a drama and then Wendy wanted to do it.”

  “A drama?” My mom sounds perkier, loudly ignoring my bitchy dementia reference. “What's it about?”

  “A trophy wife's older husband takes off, leaving her with his two bratty kids. She's got to move to a smaller town that she can afford and start over with barely any money and a bunch of kids who don't even like her.”

  “Lola,” Charlotte says, sounding concerned. “How are you going to write a show like that? I know you know what it's like to live without a man, but what do you know about kids?”

  “I used to be a kid.”

  Another sigh, “I think maybe you still are. You know, Jacey is the last of the cousins to be married, except you.”

  “And Colin,” I remind her, suddenly feeling very tired.

  “Lola, don't be ridiculous.”

  “I'm going to go now, Mom. Tell Colin he is no longer my brother and I will not be accepting any calls from his number from now on.” I hang up the phone.

  For a few minutes I sit there. Just sit there, listening to the crickets chirping right outside my windows. I gulp in some air and decide to get to work. I start to ease myself out from under the counter.

  “Lola!”

  Bam! The front door crashes open, startling the hell out of me and making me smack my head against the underside of the overhanging counter.

  “Owww!” I tip over into a fetal position on the kitchen tiles, cradling the back of my head.

  “Lola?” Ray calls as he charges through my house. “Lo—” He almost steps on me as he erupts into the kitchen. “Lola,” he squawks, seeing me. “What on earth are you doing down there?”

  “I hate you,” I say, rubbing my head. “I am taking back your key and changing my gate code.”

  Ray snorts. “Right. Then who's gonna scramble back here when you leave your iPad on the coffee pot or in the kitchen sink?”

  “Shut up,” I say, rubbing my head.

  “What the hell happened to you?” He peers down at me.

  “I hit my head.”

  Ray looks around my airy kitchen. “On what?”

  “Oh, like you even care,” I pout, pulling myself into a sitting position.

  “Of course I care,” he quips matter-of-factly, sitting on the floor and settling in next to me. “Remember the time I smuggled some pastries to you in the hospital?”

  “I do, actually,” I say, trying to smile at him. “Well, pastries and porn.”

  “It was not porn. It was art.”

  “Po-tate-o, po-tot-o,” I say in a sing-song trill. “So, what brings you here tonight?”

  “Oh? That.” Ray sighs and takes my hand in his. “I was just wondering what the fuck is going on. That's all.”

  I laugh but the sound is hollow. “Oh, you mean about Arlen.”

  “I get back from the dentist with your Starbucks, thank you very much, and you're AWOL. And your handyman is Wendy Hunter's new leading man? Lola ...” Ray grips my hand more firmly and looks into my face. “Are you completely nuts? I mean, are you losing your marbles? Do you hear voices? Are you visited by little green men at night?”

  I hold his gaze. “Did you see the audition?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you know I'm not off my rocker. Tell me that guy is not the living, breathing incarnation of Sam.”

  “He's not an actor. What if he doesn't have any more in him than that one fluke scene?”

  “He's Sam.”

  “Hmmmm.” Ray leans his head back and closes his eyes. “So this is that famous instinct of yours. The brash audacity that saves shows. Only now it feels extremely loud and incredibly close.”

  “Trust me.”

  “Does anyone know that Arlen is your handyman?”

  “You're the only one.”

  “And I'm still the only one.”

  I take a long, shaky breath.

  Ray looks at me. Hard. I have to concentrate so that I don't blink or flinch.

  “Lola,” he begins. “Does Arlen know that he's Sam?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What does that mean?”

  I can tell he's marshaling himself not to freak out in my kitchen. I pull myself up and out from under the counter. “He knows he is perfect for Sam. But he doesn't want the job.”

  Ray follows me. “What?”

  “Relax, Ray. I have a plan. He'll be on board in time for the table read next Monday.”

  Ray swallows. “Lola, I've been watching you do your magic for a few years now. You save shows. You make actors and directors happy and they never realize how you're lining them up to do exactly what you want. They're egomaniacs and you manage to get the best damn work out of them. But Arlen isn't a crazy-ass actor. He's a guy. A real-life, actual man. Do you know anything about those?”

  “Ouch. Have you been snap-chatting with Charlotte?”

  “I'm serious, Lola.”

  “I told you, I have a plan.”

  “Arlen Black is the real deal, Lola. Remember that. And be careful.”

  Chapter 7

  ARLEN

  Arlen had to stop thinking about Lola Scott. Without even trying, the woman had single-handedly engineered his most disturbing hour since … well, it had been a while.

  Damn it! />
  She'd gotten under his skin and he didn't like it. Not one bit. Someone who could get in that easily was dangerous. She was like a heat seeking missile that had somehow found him under all the rocks he'd been happy enough to call home.

  Arlen climbed up the ladder and got to work coating the walls with the pungent paint. Was this job in Valencia far enough away? At least thirty minutes from Los Angeles. Plus he was well wrapped up in a cookie cutter house indistinguishable from all the others on the block. But Arlen felt oddly exposed as he worked in the family room, stuck up on the ladder like a pinata. He wished he were working on the plumbing instead of Jim—he was sure that getting as subterranean as possible might help him smother all his chaotic thoughts. But Jim had called plumbing, and not once in the past three years had Arlen ever countermanded him. It was Jim's company. Sure, Arlen owned it, but that was just because he'd had the capital after he'd sold the house in La Cañada.

  He winced.

  But that was how he forced himself to think of it. The La Cañada house. He didn't think of it as his old house. Not as his family's house. Not home. The La Cañada house. And when he'd sold it and bought a smaller place, he'd had enough left to finance Jim's construction company. But Jim was the one who ran things, and it was going to stay that way. No way would he let Lola Scott wreck that, too.

  So Arlen buckled down and got to work. And he kept working, like a shark kept swimming.

  When he was ready to start on the west facing wall, he climbed down and turned the ladder. Securing it in place, he looked up to find himself facing the open sliding glass doors. And his heart practically stopped on the spot at what he saw out front.

  A red Tesla Model S convertible driven by a blonde in shades.

  Chapter 8

  LOLA

  Hanging my sunglasses in the collar of my Snagglepuss T-shirt, I climb onto the deck. The glass doors open into a big half-painted room where Arlen stands by a ladder. And he's looking at me. In a way that makes my neck tighten up with thoughts of blow darts dipped in curare.

  I smile as sweetly as I know how and pop my head into the room. “Hi. May I come in?” I ignore the blast of fresh paint that clogs my sinuses and makes my eyes water.

  Arlen tips his head in assent, then turns to pick up his paint roller.

  I walk into the jungle-like heat of the un-airconditioned room and feel my clothes cling to me like shrink wrap. I think cooling thoughts as I walk right up to him and offer my hand. “I'm Lola Scott,” I say.

  He looks at me and blinks. “I know who you are.” He turns up his paint-dabbed palm to show me he's not going to shake.

  “I want to start over,” I explain as I drop my hand and stick it in the front pocket of my jeans. This man is making me feel so dorky. All he's doing is looking at me and I feel so incredibly lame. How does he do that? I need that so badly in Sam. I need Arlen. I remind myself that I am in control.

  I lick my lips and take a shallow breath. “I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable yesterday. I'm sorry.”

  “It's forgotten,” he says, and turns away to pick up a scrap of sandpaper.

  Sandpaper? When he's painting? Even I know you don't sand around wet paint.

  I take my hand out of my pocket and move around to face him. “I know I must have seemed a little obsessive yesterday.” I soften my voice and try to do that nice-kitty thing with my eyes. “I'm sorry I dragged you into my own psychoses.”

  He climbs the ladder and starts sanding what looks like a random spot on a perfect ceiling.

  “I understand,” he says. “Really, it's no big deal.”

  Man, I don't like having this conversation while looking up at him. I spot an empty crate on the floor, so I grab it, flip it over, and climb up so I'm closer to level with him. “It IS a big deal,” I insist. “I behaved terribly.”

  Arlen steps down a step on the ladder and looks right into my face. “Okay,” he concedes. “It's a big deal. But I still forgive you.”

  I look into his eyes and ...

  “Lola?”

  Mmmm ...

  “Lola, what are you doing here?” he asks. “What do you want?”

  I catch my breath. What ...? What the blazes is happening to me? I am Lola Scott! “I ...”

  Arlen steps down the ladder and I step down from my box, and we stand face to face.

  “And don't say again that you came here to apologize. You did not drive up to Valencia in the middle of a work day to apologize. I don't think you'd do that even if you weren't in the middle of trying to cast your show.”

  He's not falling for it. And just like that, I don't know what to say. I don't freaking know what to say! But I always know what to say. And how to say it.

  “Lola Scott, why are you here?”

  I open my mouth but nothing comes out. NOTHING. Oh, my God. I slip both my hands into my back pockets, trying to look chill and composed.

  And cold relief surges through me as my fingers brush against the envelope in my back pocket. I take it out and thrust it at him.

  “What's this?” he asks, not taking it.

  I swallow. “It's my way of trying to make up for yesterday.”

  He pushes the envelope back toward me.

  “Please,” I say gently. “You didn't even open it.” I just keep looking at him, silently begging him to take the envelope.

  I see a muscle in his jaw jump and he takes the envelope from me. Arlen steps back and opens it. He takes out two keys on a ring and a small piece of paper. “Bluebird,” he reads, “now throw this away.” His brow furrows, but he doesn't ask. Next, he pulls out a phone number on a slip of paper, then a gas card. Finally, he takes out the check for five thousand dollars.

  He looks up at me. “What's all this?”

  “Keys to my house,” I begin. “Front and back. 'Bluebird' is the passcode to my front gate. It's got a telephone keypad. But you should throw away that paper since it's easy to remember.”

  He cocks a brow, and I continue, gaining momentum with every second that he doesn't throw me out. “Next is my cell phone number so you can contact me whenever you need to. A gas card for all your transportation needs, and five thousand dollars to get you started.”

  He still doesn't say anything.

  “I really messed up yesterday. After all the trouble you already went through with Ray to set this all up. From here on, I want to make this the easiest job you ever worked.”

  Arlen puts everything back in the envelope and re-tucks the flap. “This isn't a good idea.” He hands back the envelope.

  But I don't take it. “Why?” I ask. “Because of yesterday? That was all my fault. I did everything wrong.”

  “Not everything.” He says it so quietly, I wonder if I heard him right. But I must have, because I feel the chills that sneak all across my skin as I remember that kiss. That damn kiss. I'm the showrunner, for Pete's sake. My kisses don't count. Isn't that obvious?

  Still, I can feel a blush seep up my neck, so I turn away. And I find myself looking out at the barren tan landscape of suburbanized desert. Hot, baking, unrelenting desert. I spin back to face him, a smile lighting up my face. “I can offer you trees!”

  He looks nonplussed, and I feel like I've finally pulled free from a riptide.

  “Trees?” he asks.

  “My house is in the Hollywood Hills,” I explain, “and my property is covered with trees.” I widen my smile. “Chinese elm, sycamore, eucalyptus, catalpa, pine, palm. Orange, lemon, fig. And those are only the ones I recognize.” I pause to catch my breath and let my words sink in. “Wouldn't you rather spend the summer working in a shady, breezy spot in the hills than in this?” I sweep my arm to indicate the cracked, treeless scrub outside the window. “Or anywhere in The Valley? It's a concrete grid. It turns into Hades come June.”

  His face remains impassive, but I see his eyes shift a little. He's thinking about it!

  “Plus,” I add, pulling out my ace, “I'll never be home to bother you.”

  H
is head snaps up. “You won't be there?”

  “I wrote a show that I'm trying to get on the air by fall,” I say. “I have less than a month to cast, shoot, and edit the pilot. If the network picks it up, then I have to hire a writing staff and actually make an episode a week. For the next few months, I'll be home to sleep, and that's about it.”

  He looks at me, but I do not flinch. He keeps looking, but I keep my gaze steady. I can do stillness and silence with the best of them when I need to.

  “You won't be there?” he clarifies.

  “Hardly ever. The house will be yours to renovate.”

  Arlen takes a deep breath. “If I can start tomorrow, I'm in.”

  Chapter 9

  LOLA

  I can still feel my heart pulsing in my neck as I gun the Tesla down the 5 back toward the studio. He walked right into my trap. Right in! He jumped at the chance to start on the house pronto. Jumped. Jumped! Arlen is waltzing right into my world and giving me time. Everything is aligning into the essential rightness of what needs to happen. It's almost as though Arlen is pulled in by the force field of my urgency.

  The late April air slaps at my hair as I race down the freeway. I'm waiting for that rush of adrenaline to surge through me—that blast I feel when a project has jumped into the next phase and I've got to up my game. But all I feel is stuttering nerves. No streamlined swell of confidence.

  Because some things in this story just don't fit.

  I spook Arlen—that much is clear. But still, he didn't simply agree to the job—Arlen really did pounce. On a job. Scooping up a job that eagerly usually means that a person needs money. Why else would someone work so hard at manual labor unless that person needed to make ends meet? Yet Arlen wants nothing to do with the incredibly profitable opportunity that I dropped in is lap yesterday. It makes no sense. I'm not offering anything illegal or even difficult. Yes, acting is a skill and only the talented make it look easy, but he's got the talent, so the hard part is already taken care of. The situation does not add up.

  But I've got to make it all work, make it all dovetail. But how? Arlen's just got to adjust to the idea of upending his monotonous blue-collar life in order to become a TV star. And I have to convince him. It's as simple as that.