by Mia Sosa
I wink at him. “What do I get in return?”
He drops his jaw, and then his gaze snaps to mine. His expression is playful as he studies me, but much to my disappointment, he ultimately refuses my bait. Shaking his head, he pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “You get free accommodations in my home, you ingrate.”
Hmm. Yeah, no. We’re nowhere close to breaking the friendship barrier. Any other person would have recognized my question as an attempt at flirtation. But not Julian. He probably still pictures me in braces. “I was kidding.”
“You do a lot of that.”
“And you don’t do enough of it. You’re so formal all the time. Makes me wonder if you wear a three-piece suit in bed. With suspenders.”
His eyes crinkle at the corners, and he smiles broadly. “I wear my birthday suit in bed, and I’m very relaxed there, a fact you’ll have to trust me on.”
I want to pout, but that’s not going to help my cause, so I pucker my lips at him instead. “Or you could prove it to me.”
His eyes shutter closed. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t take this somewhere it shouldn’t go. Carter’s my best friend and my client. I’ve spent way too long navigating that relationship, and it’s not easy. I’m not going to make it harder by messing around with his sister. We are never going to happen.”
A boulder sits on my chest, flattening me and my spirit. “Never?”
His dark eyes soften as he shakes his head. “Never ever. Let’s just leave it, okay?”
Well, there it is. The answer I’ve been seeking. His reasons are sound—and my objective was selfish. I wanted to satisfy my curiosity and fulfill my teenage fantasies. Julian wants to preserve a friendship and protect his livelihood. I take a deep, cleansing breath and exhale on a sigh. “You tend to overthink things, but in this instance, you’re right.” I point an accusing finger at him and give him a stern look. “Just this once.”
“Now about that song . . .”
I fake a yawn and rise from the sofa. “We’ll have to do it another time. I’m suddenly very sleepy.”
“I’m sure you are,” he says with bemusement in his voice.
Before I leave the room, I stare at his bowed head and gather the nerve to ask another question. “Under different circumstances, though, would you . . .”
Without looking up and without hesitation, he says, “Definitely.”
The certainty in his voice makes my gut twist. Damn. Maybe it would have been better never to know the answer. Because, yes, his admission heals the light bruise on my ego, but it also makes the loss tangible.
Chapter Six
Julian
I SUFFER THROUGH another restless night and drag myself out of bed the next morning. If I’m not careful, the quality of my rest will depend on whether Ashley’s around, and that’s not healthy. After sleepwalking through my morning routine, I take several groggy steps to the kitchen and make myself a protein shake. When I unscrew the lid of the whey powder, the particles rush out like a small storm cloud. The floor and my face are among the casualties.
I mutter to myself as I get down on all fours and clean up the mess I’ve made.
Not long after, Ashley snorts above me. “You okay down there?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I mutter. “Just a little mishap.”
The truth is, despite what I know to be the rational thing to do, I spent way too much time last night imagining a scenario in which Ashley and I were lovers, not friends. It was a cruel exercise, and my brain and body are battered as a result.
“That’s what you get for not making yourself a proper breakfast. Eggs, bacon, hash browns. No powder involved.”
“That’s a weekend meal,” I say as I take one more pass at the floor with a damp dish towel. When I stand, I find a fully dressed Ashley wringing her hands. “What’s wrong?”
She jumps at my question and repeatedly shakes her head as she answers. “What? Nothing’s wrong. Why’d you ask?”
“Ash, it’s six o’clock in the morning, you have the day off, and you’re awake. Something’s wrong.”
Her shoulders drop. “I didn’t sleep well. It’ll pass, I’m sure. Figured I could explore the neighborhood more before I leave for my next trip.”
Given how we left things last night, I’m guessing her thoughts weren’t all that different from mine. As long as they remain unspoken, we should be fine. “When do you have to check in?”
“Tomorrow night. Red-eye to Chicago.”
I feel like an insensitive shit for not thinking of this sooner. Ashley’s not familiar with my neighborhood, and all I’ve done is point her in the direction of the nearest Whole Foods. I should have offered to show her around. My phone, which is always either in my pocket or within reach, buzzes on the counter, a fitting reminder that my time is rarely my own. I swipe it up and read a message from one of my clients letting me know she’s on time for her New York audition. It’s a small miracle, and I’ll take it. Turning back to Ashley, I say, “I have to head into the office soon. Won’t be back until late, so . . .”
She straightens. “Oh, don’t worry about me. I’m in LA. Entertaining myself won’t be hard.”
As I watch her and consider my schedule, she pulls her lower lip into her mouth and scans the space. We’re dancing around each other, and I place the burden on myself to correct that. Fortunately, I know exactly how to. “Hey, a potential client invited me to a play at the Pasadena Playhouse tonight. An experimental show of some kind. It’s supposed to be groundbreaking and”—I make air quotes—“ ‘edgy.’ Want to join me?”
Her eyes brighten, and her pinched expression softens. “Sounds like fun.”
“I won’t be able to take you. Too much going on at work. But I’ll arrange for a car to pick you up. How does that sound?”
She nods. “Great. What time?”
“Be ready at seven.”
She gives me an ear-to-ear smile. “Perfect. I’ll be ready.”
See, Julian? That wasn’t so bad. The awkwardness between us is only temporary. Ashley and I will be fine. Years from now, we’ll sit together with our respective spouses and laugh about how we avoided a catastrophe. I’m certain of it.
I SEARCH FOR Ashley when I arrive at the theater, but I don’t see her anywhere. After confirming she hasn’t called or sent me a text, I lean against a column in the lobby and check my email as I wait for her. A few minutes later, Ashley spins through the revolving door, catches sight of me, and strides my way. Her long hair frames her face in soft waves, and she’s wearing a frilly sundress and strappy flat sandals, as if she decided to cosplay as the perfect spring day. I’m not the only person who notices, judging by the people following her progress. Still, they’re probably not imagining her like I am—tangled in my sheets, her back arched and her limbs trembling as I lick her swollen clit. Jesus. Straightening as she approaches, I put a fucking muzzle on my thoughts.
“Hey,” she says in a breathy voice. “Sorry I’m late. The driver was showing me pictures of his newborn granddaughter, and I couldn’t figure out a polite way to tell him a dozen pictures was enough.”
People gravitate to Ashley, opening up to her in a way they’d never act with me. Maybe because I don’t give off vibes that I want to hear anyone’s life story. Still, Ashley could get a nun to cackle in church if she tried hard enough. “No problem,” I say as we walk inside the theater. “How’d your day of sightseeing go?”
“Um, not great. I kind of got sidetracked. Did you know there’s an ice cream shop two blocks away from your place? You can watch the batches being made. I was mesmerized.”
We’re swallowed by the crowd, both content to lumber along until we get to our row.
I hand her a program. “Luna Creamery?”
“That’s the one!” Her eyes brighten and grow wide. “And they have ice cream flights. I inhaled those miniature scoops of deliciousness like I was throwing back shots of vodka. I’m sorry, but fresh
ice cream beats an LA tour any day.”
“I’ve never been there. Always wondered if it was any good.”
She halts midstride and squeezes my arm. “We need to get you out more. See, there’s this thing. It’s called fun. Are you familiar with it?”
Ignoring that wisecrack, I place my hands on her shoulders and steer her forward. It feels good to have my hands on her. Too good. I drop my arms to the sides because feeling good with Ashley isn’t wise. At the front of the theater, I motion for her to proceed me. “Here we are. Row B, seats seven and eight. We’ve got nine, too, but none of my coworkers jumped on it.”
She places her purse in the empty seat and leans over. “Who’s the target?”
I chuckle at her attempt to make this an undercover stakeout. “Well, Agent Williamson, the target’s name is Gabriel Vega. He’s done commercial work and public theater mostly. He reached out to me a couple of weeks ago—got my number from someone he knows in the television division—and he made a good first impression.”
Her playful expression turns serious. “Was that okay? Passing on your number like that? I imagine you don’t give it out to just anyone.”
“My direct number, definitely not. But in this instance, it was the right move. He made a compelling case.”
Within two minutes of the call, Vega told me about his struggle to land quality television and film roles, attributing it in part to his Puerto Rican heritage. I suspect he’s right. Tinseltown is notorious for typecasting Latino actors. Sure, there’s no shortage of small parts as the neighborhood ex-gang member or the Colombian drug lord, but leading roles in which a successful Latino saves the day or gets the girl, or both, are few and far between. I can’t share his concerns with Ashley—it wouldn’t be appropriate, especially if Gabriel becomes my client—so I flip open the program and point to his head shot. “That’s him.”
Ashley stares at his photo. “Wow. He’s gorgeous.”
“You know you said that out loud, right?”
She blinks up at me, and her cheeks go rosy. “Well, consider me the one and only member of your focus group, then. If his acting and personality match his looks, you have a winner.”
It’s all good. She’s entitled to admire another man’s appearance, obviously. Just feels weird to hear her be so blatant about it. And if her interest in Gabriel is any indication, I’m nothing but a temporary diversion to her, which for my own sake is exactly what I need to be. Plus, I know something she doesn’t. “He’s married.”
She rolls her eyes. “Why am I not surprised?”
The lights in the theater flicker, and the audience’s chatter fades to indistinct murmurs.
“What kind of show is this anyway?” Ashley asks just before the curtain rises.
“Experimental improv, whatever that means. Should be interesting.”
WHEN THE PERFORMANCE is over, Ashley and I stroll to center stage to meet Gabriel.
A small circle of people surrounds the cast, and Gabriel gracefully accepts everyone’s congratulatory remarks. His face is open and friendly, and he carries himself with ease, all positive signs for someone wanting to be in the public eye. His face brightens even more when he sees us. After breaking away from the group, he claps me on the shoulder and shakes my outstretched hand. “Hey, you made it.”
“We did. Thanks for the invitation.”
Next to me, Ashley clears her throat.
“Gabriel, this is Ashley. She couldn’t resist coming along and getting a taste of the LA theater scene.”
Gabriel shakes her hand, too. “Great to meet you, Ashley.” Then he launches into a five-minute explanation of the show concept, and I pretend to be riveted by it. Not Ashley, though. Beside me, she stretches her arms behind her and stifles a yawn.
Gabriel glances at her. “Uh-oh. I’m boring your girlfriend, Julian.”
She straightens and gives him a flirty smile. “Oh, I wasn’t bored. Just low blood sugar, I think. And he’s not my boyfriend. We’re old family friends.”
“And I represent her brother,” I add.
“Really?” Gabriel says. “Who’s your brother?”
“Carter Williamson.” She gives him a sheepish grin. “I guess you’d know him as Carter Stone.”
“Oh, wow. Stone’s your brother? I guess good looks run in the family.”
Gabriel’s spouse wouldn’t appreciate this conversation; neither do I, for that matter. Time to move it along. I scan the area around us. “Does your wife attend your shows?”
Gabriel slants his head and looks at me quizzically. “My ex-wife? No, it’s been years since I’ve seen her.”
I massage the back of my head as I consider this new information. “Sorry. You mentioned on the phone that your wife always thought you overshared, so I assumed . . .”
He waves away the misunderstanding. “No worries. She’s in my past.” With a wistful expression on his face, he says under his breath, “Or I’d like her to be.”
Hmm. If I’m not mistaken, Gabriel’s not over his ex-wife. I make a mental note to check whether she’s an actor as well.
A fellow cast member tugs on the sleeve of Gabriel’s button-down. “Hey, man, we’re heading out soon. You comin’?”
Gabriel nods. “Be there in a bit.” He turns back to us. “Hey, I don’t suppose you’d want to join me? We’re going to Muddy’s Bar to grab a bite to eat. It’s just across the street.”
I hate neighborhood bars. People are too loud, and the music is never anything I want to listen to. Plus, the possibility that some fool will drink too much and say something stupid means I never relax enough to enjoy the experience. I open my mouth to decline, but Ashley lays her hands on my chest, and her delicate touch wraps around my brain and neutralizes it.
Her eyes are wide and dancing when she speaks. “Oooh, I’d like to go, but you’re my ride. Can we go? It’ll be fun. And I’m so hungry I could eat granola.” She winks at me, and even if it’s at my expense, I like that we’re sharing a private joke. Way more than I should, actually.
“Well, we can’t have you eating granola, can we now? The fiber and iron might cause your body to go into shock.”
She’s grinning as she pushes me away from her.
Gabriel claps his hands together. “Great. I’m going to grab my stuff and make sure everything’s locked up. The cast is on the hook if anyone swipes the theater’s equipment. Meet you over there in ten?”
“Sure.” I offer Ashley my arm. “Shall we?”
She bows. “We most certainly shall.”
With our arms linked, we sprint across the avenue and duck into Muddy’s Bar. The place is dark but not dank, and it appears to be overpopulated with theater and musician types. In other words, I see lots of cardigans and classic rock T-shirts. The crowd’s diverse, too, which isn’t a surprise in this part of town. My suit sets me apart, though. To them, I probably look like an undercover cop.
Ashley points at a table in a back corner. “Let’s snag that one.”
We weave our way through the crowd and settle onto the curved high-backed bench that faces the stage. A middle-aged man is performing a comedy set and swipes at his forehead with a kerchief every few seconds. There’s laughter in the crowd, but it isn’t timed to anything he’s saying.
I lean over to Ashley and whisper in her ear. “He’s bombing.” Her sweet scent wafts over me, and I breathe her in. Damn, she smells good.
She stills and closes her eyes.
“You okay, Ash?”
She nods and fishes inside her purse, damn near burying her nose in it. “I’m so thirsty.” Then she sets her bag behind her, presses a hand against her throat, and swallows, her other arm raised to get a server’s attention. When she finally looks up again, she grimaces sympathetically at our amateur comedian. “I admire his courage, but this is painful to watch.”
Before I can respond, Gabriel and a few of his castmates arrive at the table with our server in tow. We exchange introductions as she waits patiently for everyone to
get situated. Once we’re settled, she goes around placing napkins in front of everyone. “Welcome to Muddy’s, folks. We’ve got three- and four-dollar cocktails tonight. They’re listed here.” She points to a long, narrow piece of cardstock in the center of the table. “It’s also open mic night. If anyone’s interested in getting on stage, you can sign up by the DJ booth.”
I nudge Ashley’s shoulder with mine. “What do you say, Ash? Ready to get up there?”
“I’ll do it if you do it,” she says without hesitation. There’s mischief in her eyes, as if she knows her challenge will shut me up. And it does, because there’s no way I’d ever embarrass myself on a stage. We order a round of drinks and appetizers for the table.
Ashley tacks on an order of burger and fries. A few minutes later, she rises and places a hand on my shoulder as she climbs out from behind the table. “I’m going to run to the restroom.” Her casual touches should go unnoticed, but my brain seizes on those moments of contact and tricks me into thinking they mean more than they do. Why did I agree to this? I should have shuttled her home immediately after the show. Before she leaves, she lifts a finger as if she’s scolding me. “If my burger gets here before I do, don’t touch it.”
Gabriel winks at her. “I’ll protect it with my life.”
She winks back at him. “I’m relying on you, comrade.”
He rewards her with a goofy grin just as our drinks arrive. Damn, I gave up freeballing in my sweats at home for this? Eager for something to do besides watch them flirt with each other, I reach for my snifter before our server can get it off the tray.
Ashley steps away, and when I finish a sip of brandy, Gabriel slides closer. “Again, thanks for coming, man. I wasn’t sure you would.”
His friends get into a debate about the greatest movie remake of all time, leaving us free to chat about his work. “The show was interesting. Not what I expected.”
“This isn’t what I want to be doing, and some days it’s hard to keep pounding the pavement in search of better work.”
