I look at Sally, who shakes her head, wide-eyed. “I’ll Uber.”
Ramon looks at her, brows creased. “You’re not taking an Uber.” His voice is edged with something new. Possessiveness? Protectiveness? Whatever it is, it’s laced with testosterone. And when did that happen?
Sally blushes. She must hear it too. I think I need to keep a closer eye on the two of them. This development can’t be good.
“No one’s taking an Uber,” Mr. Hebert gripes. “Sally’s riding up front with her boyfriend, and Iris will ride with you, Beau.”
“That’s not her boyfriend,” I protest.
At the same time Beau says, “Wait. What?”
Meanwhile, Ramon and Sally’s eyes meet, and they smile at each other. “Sounds good,” Sally says.
“But—” I start, but what else can I say? Anything I say is going to sound juvenile and petty. I don’t want Ramon and Sally riding together because I think they need a chaperone? I don’t want to ride with Mr. Hebert’s nephew because he was rude to me? I’d rather my best friend ride with him even though they’ve already had words and she was glaring daggers at him?
Yeah, no. I’ll just shut up and ride with him. But one quick glance his way tells me I’m not the one who needs convincing. He’s glowering at his uncle.
“What?” Mr. Hebert asks, provokingly. “It’ll be good for you. You should get to know her since you’re going to be her new teacher.”
“What?!” Our questions chime in unison.
Mr. Hebert only points to his elbow. “Iris, you might recall that I signed a contract. La Fête is obligated to provide four more weeks of dance instruction plus five weeks of scripted choreography.”
“So?” Beau scoffs.
“So unless you wanna see me break that contract and get sued—and believe me, if anyone would sue, it’d be that manager of hers—” His words send shame pouring down my chest like a bowl of oatmeal. And I’m just as hot and uncomfortable. “You will properly introduce yourself to your new client and start working out a plan for your upcoming lessons.”
One glimpse at the stone cold look on Beau’s face, and I want to crawl in a hole. We just met. What did I do to make him hate me so much? Besides injure his uncle? And cancel his class? And hijack his evening?
“Maybe,” I squeak, “we could talk about this later.”
“Good idea, darlin’. Rusticating in the back of this SUV isn’t doing much for this injury.” Mr. Hebert shoots a look at Ramon. “Drive, son. Lafayette General.”
“I take orders from her,” Ramon says, nodding to me. “What’d you say, Iris?”
Competing thoughts arm wrestle in my head. None of them good.
I shake my head as if the movement could clear it. “Go. Mr. Hebert needs a doctor. Just go.”
“You got it, boss,” Ramon says, and then he darts around the front of the Rover to open the door for Sally.
Mr. Hebert’s nephew moves to close the door to the back seat.
“Beau,” Mr. Hebert calls, stopping him.
“Yeah, Nonc?”
“Be nice.”
Beau leans in and says something to his uncle under his breath I can’t make out. But it’s obvious he told Mr. Hebert something he didn’t want me to hear. What the hell? When he steps back and closes the door, I meet Sally’s gaze through the side window.
We’ve been friends since we were nine, so a whole conversation transpires between us without words.
What did he just say?
I have no idea.
What do you mean, you have no idea??
I mean I have no idea!!!
She looks down as Ramon starts the engine, and in the next second I feel my phone buzz in my back pocket.
Sally: He said something in French and Mr. Hebert answered in French, sounding pissed.
French? Then it had to be about me. What the hell did he say about me in French?
And how rude!
“We should go,” he mutters. He doesn’t look happy about it. Well, I’m not happy about it either, but I stick out my hand anyway.
“Iris Adams.” And then because I’m an actor, I take a breath and deliver a line. “Nice to meet you.”
He glances at my offered hand and then back into my eyes with a dubious expression. Yeah, maybe I’m not winning a Golden Globe today.
“I know who you are,” he says, and the way he says it so flat, I have no idea how to take it. “Beau Landry.”
And then I nearly jump when his hand closes around mine. Because it’s a real handshake. His big hand surrounds mine and squeezes. Not tight and painful like some of those Hollywood execs who use a handshake like a power play, but snug. And heavy.
Like a weighted blanket.
It startles me, and I pull away a little too quickly. He’s handsome. Crazy handsome. And I thought so before I touched his hand, but I have to remember that this guy doesn’t like me. And he isn’t particularly nice.
I take a deep breath and let it out in whoosh. “Ready when you are.”
Without a word, Beau turns and heads back toward the dance studio. He locks the back door and lets the screen slam behind him.
“Allons,” he says with a head-jerk toward the remaining truck in the parking lot. I follow him, chafing at the terse French expression.
“Does everyone here speak French?” I ask, and maybe my tone is a little sour.
He snorts. “Not by a long way.” Beau pops the locks on his truck, and I walk to the passenger side. As I climb in, I lose my footing and bark my shin on the running board, but instead of crying out or cursing like I want to, I swallow a whimper and heft myself inside. Because he didn’t see. At least, I hope he didn’t see. And I’ve already made myself look like a walking disaster.
But, Holy God, it hurts so bad, I almost choke. I’m going to have a bruise that’ll probably require makeup if we shoot any scenes with me in a skirt for the next week. It hurts so bad, all I can do is breathe in barely controlled puffs and pants.
It hurts so bad, I don’t even notice that Beau Landry has climbed into the truck and is seated next to me—staring at me—until he speaks.
“You okay?”
I nod. But it’s not good enough. He keeps staring.
“Yeah.” The word rasps out of me, making it sound like I’m being strangled. “Good.”
His eyes narrow. “You sure?”
I nod again.
“Because it looked like you fell getting into the truck.” His frown is about as welcoming as a barbed wire fence. “Are you high or something?”
“What?” It’s hard to sound indignant when you’re in agony. I sound more like I’ve been stepped on.
“Are you high?” he asks again as though I’m stupid. Or high. This guy is starting to piss me off.
“No, I’m not high,” I snap. I’ve never been high in my life. Moira would lose her mind.
His focus doesn’t leave my eyes. In fact, he looks like he’s searching. Checking them out. And not in the good way.
“Hey. My eyes aren’t bloodshot and they’re not glassy because I’m not high, okay? Jesus.” I shake my head, unable to believe this jerk. “What happened with your uncle was an accident, understand? An accident.”
He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t yield a thing. “And what about just now? Getting into the truck?”
“I slipped.” Fuck this shit. I don’t have to take this. “You know what? I think I’ll call an Uber. You can just go.”
I open the truck’s door and look down. It would be great if I could just bounce out of this thing with a huff and storm off, but I’m not that graceful. I’m not graceful at all, and I don’t want to end up on my ass. I stick my right leg out and plant it firmly on the gravel drive before letting my left follow.
I grab the edge of the door and brace to swing it closed.
“Wait.”
I freeze and then glare up at him. “What?”
“You don’t need to call an Uber.” He’s still frowning. He may be handsome, bu
t everything about him is hard edges and cold vibes.
“I think I do.”
I step back to close the door—and did he just roll his eyes at me?
“Is it really that big of a deal?” he asks.
“Excuse me?” Now I’m frowning. What the hell is he talking about?
“Is it that big of a deal that I asked about your drug use?”
My nostrils flare. “I’m not on drugs.”
“Or your drinking,” he adds, shrugging like it doesn’t matter.
My eyes nearly launch from their sockets. Hello? Alcohol is the worst kind of carb according to Moira. Who needs booze bloat? I can’t remember the last time I had a drink. The only thing I swallow that’s fermented is kombucha and then just four ounces a day.
“I’m not drunk either,” I hiss. I am, however, ready to claw this guy’s face off.
He shakes his head. “Look, it’s really none of my business, and I won’t tell any paparazzi if that’s what you’re worried about.”
I bark a disgusted laugh. “I’m not worried about anything. I’m offended because you are being so rude, and I’m shocked that such an asshole could be related to Mr. Hebert.”
He laughs too, but instead of sounding disgusted, he seems surprised. “Wow. You really do have him fooled,” he says, so low I almost miss it.
Enough. That’s enough.
I slam the door shut and stomp back toward the studio, pulling out my phone as I do. The sun is beginning to set, and although Lafayette seems like a nice town, it’s easy to tell downtown isn’t the safest part of it. I’ll wait for my Uber out of plain sight.
But when I’m halfway to the porch, I hear Beau Landry open his door behind me.
“Where are you going?”
I spin around and come to a halt. I know better than to walk backward. Walking backward and I do not mix.
“I’m calling an Uber. Like I said.” I cross my arms with no small amount of attitude. “What’s the matter? Can’t you remember that? Are you high?”
His eyes narrow, but even with his tidy beard, I can see he’s smiling. He’s trying not to, but it’s there.
“Maybe I deserved that,” he acknowledges with a dip of his chin.
“Hmph. Going from judgy to humble in less than a minute?” I cock one hip and tap my chin with an index finger. “Sounds like mood swings. Are you drunk?”
He arches a dark brow, and, damn, I’ve seen headshots of leading co-stars that didn’t look half that hot.
Bastard.
Beau Landry puts up his hands in surrender. “Sorry. I offended you. I apologize,” he says, still smiling, so I doubt he means it. “You don’t have to call an Uber.”
I’ve already opened the app. I look down at all the icons for potential rides. I won’t have to wait long at all.
He steps out of his truck and stands beside it, his smile fading. “I really don’t mind driving you.”
I consider forgiving him. Giving in and riding with him. But that seems risky. He’s already shown me—quite clearly—who he is. A jerk.
Well, I don’t need to spend any more time than I have to with jerks. I type in the destination and confirm my ride.
“I’m good.”
Chapter Six
BEAU
Nonc has lost his mind if he thinks Iris Adams isn’t a drama queen.
She trips my uncle and then makes it all about her. She can’t frickin’ drive herself. She throws her money around. And then she storms off the minute I ask if she’s impaired—which she clearly is. She may not be not slurring her words, but I’m not convinced she could walk a straight line if she can’t climb into a truck.
And she still insisted on taking an Uber even after I apologized. Fine. But I’m not leaving until it gets here. I won’t leave her to wait alone.
A girl who looks like her? In a neighborhood like this? No way am I leaving.
So now we’re both waiting. Me and the drama queen.
I’m leaning against the side of my truck, arms crossed over my chest, and she’s sitting on the porch swing, glued to her phone, frowning.
I recognized her immediately. I’ve never watched her show, but a lot of my students do. I’ve caught commercials for it, and I’ve seen GIFs and memes of Iris Adams as Raven Blackwell facing off with some monster or vampire or werewolf. Last fall, I assigned a project for my French III students to create French captions for three-minute scenes of their favorite TV shows. Two of the projects featured scenes from Iris’s show Hexed.
So, yeah, I’ve seen her in action, though she looks different than when she’s in character. Softer. More natural. In fact, I don’t think she’s wearing much makeup. But she doesn’t need any.
She’s beautiful.
A beautiful, spoiled, entitled little drama queen.
That’s what I’m thinking when her phone rings in her hands, and I watch her whole posture change. Instead of slumping on the swing looking bored and irritated, she bolts up like her spine’s hooked to a pulley.
“Moira, no,” she answers, turning her back toward me as she begins to pace. “I don’t think we need to make a big deal out of it.” She’s quiet for a while, listening, probably, and she begins to pace faster.
I have to admit, if she’s drunk or stoned, it’s not showing up now. She’s not weaving or moving off-kilter. She’s pacing like someone nervous. Someone alert to danger.
Except she’s not. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch movement. A guy in a stretched out T-shirt and dirty jeans is pushing an old bicycle down West Convent Street. His eyes are on Iris’s back. If I’m betting, on her ass. She’s wearing high-waisted black and white striped shorts, and, I’ll admit, the view is exceptional. In fact, I don’t think this bum has even seen me. He’d have to tear his gaze away from her to do that, and I don’t think he has it in him.
Judging by the way his clothes and even his skin hang on him, I doubt self-control is one of his strengths.
“Moira, I really don’t think he’s going to sue, but I just feel like we should offer—”
When the guy parks his bike on the curb, I push off my truck. She still hasn’t turned.
“Hey, honey,” he calls. “You got any tweak?”
Iris whirls around to see he’s in the yard, closing in on her, and she takes a step back, but I’m closing in on him.
“This is private property,” I boom, making him jump. He’s either high or coming down hard because his peripheral vision did him no good. “You need to leave.”
He puts his scrawny, pale hands up. His fingernails are long and grimy. “I ain’t botherin’ nobody.”
“Trying to buy drugs on my property is bothering me.” I move between him and the foot of the porch steps.
“Moira, I-I’ll call you back.” Iris’s voice is barely audible behind me, but it catches our visitor’s attention. His eyes, wild though they are, light up.
“Hey… do I know you?”
“No,” I answer. “You don’t.”
He scowls, baring teeth that are mottled green and black with rot. “I was talkin’ to her.”
“Yeah, I got that. You don’t know her. Move on.”
“But I seen her before.” The bum’s eyes widen. “On TV!”
“Aw, crap.” Again, she speaks the words under her breath, but I catch them.
“Lady, you’re on TV. You must be rich. Help a guy out, will ya?” No longer looking at me, the bum advances.
I raise a hand. “Stop. You’ve got two seconds to get out of here before I help you out.” He doesn’t stop. He tries to veer around me, but I step in front of him. His chest collides with my hand, and he jerks to a halt with a look of surprise.
The smell coming off him is unbelievable. At Northside, I have kids from pretty rough backgrounds. Some of them go a few days before they get a shower. It’s the worst in August and September, but May starts to get pretty bad too. The last week of school has found me stocking the take-what-you-need cabinet in the back of my classroom with soap an
d deodorant.
But my students’ sweat-and-hormones funk is nothing like this guy’s stench. One whiff carries layers of odor. Sweat is just one of them. His T-shirt looks like it has been sweated through countless times, but mingled with it is the sour, cloying rot of garbage and the unmistakable tang of urine.
He reeks. And I’m now touching him.
I’d like nothing better than to pull my hand away, but all he sees is his next bump, and as far as he’s concerned, Iris is the one who’s giving it to him.
“Hey pal, you are not getting one step closer to her. You understand?”
He scowls at me again, leaning into my hand, but the guy is little more than a bag of bones. He opens his mouth to speak, and I have the misfortune of discovering the source of the garbage smell.
“I ain’t gonna hurt her.” He raises his hands again to show he’s no threat, and unless he’s got a knife tucked away in those sagging jeans, he’s not. But he’s also not getting past me. I could drag his ass to the street, but I won’t. As much as I don’t want him to be here, this guy’s a human wreck, but he’s still human.
“Iris,” I say low. “Are you sure you don’t want to go hop in my truck? We can leave right now.”
I hear her quick exhale behind me. “My ride’s almost here. Like less than a minute.” Her voice has changed. It’s stretched tight with nerves, and her words sound heavy with regret. “I’m sorry about this.”
I don’t take my eyes off our friend who's watching her with unchecked awe. “S’alright. We’ll wait.”
“Or you could just give me a little cash. All I need is a little—”
“Hey. Enough.” I thump him in the sternum once with the heel of my hand. Big mistake. The guy coughs right in my face.
I suppress a shudder and wipe my face against my left shirt sleeve. But not even a shower in bleach would make me feel clean right now.
From behind me I think I hear Iris moan. And then I catch:
“All my fault.”
The words are as hushed and brittle as leaves falling. Well, I can’t say she’s wrong. This night is all her fault, but I’m glad she has the decency to recognize that. Maybe she’s an entitled drama queen with an ounce of conscience.
Two-Step Page 5
