“You don’t know that,” Jess argues.
Girl’s got my back. But if nothing else, I am a pragmatist.
“I still order soda when I go out to dinner, and he looks like he knows the difference between single malt Scotch and whatever the alternative is. He’s way out of my league. Or I’m out of his league. Whatever, you get the point. There’s a major league issue.”
He’s a grizzly bear and I’m a collie. And we’ve already established that inter-species dating (or hook-ups) is a dangerous practice destined for catastrophic failure.
There’s a lengthy pause of silence. “Wait… you don’t know there are five types of Scotch?”
“No… You do?”
“Of course, I do. It’s covered in talent management 101. You’d be surprised at the useless and potentially criminal shit I know. If I Googled half of what I hear and see on any given day, the FBI would be kicking down my door.”
Jess has shared enough wild stories about the agency for me to know she’s not exaggerating. “Man, you are living the dream.”
“Blame the game, not the gamer. I work with werewolves jacked on Viagra disguised as respectable businessmen. And those are the nice guys. A girl’s gotta compete.”
I dump the now-empty dish on the bedside table and shut the lamp off, a shaft of moonlight coming through the window casts shadows in my new, much smaller bedroom. “And you had the gall to call my life an episode of Naked and Afraid.”
“Best job on the planet.”
“You scare me sometimes.”
“Not as much as I scare myself.”
Chapter 4
The convoy of cars starts early the following day. Early for lazy entitled movie stars with a predilection for crime. Not early for me; I’ve been up since 5 a.m., dragging my tired ass around to care for the animals. I didn’t even get the chance to shower before they started coming down the driveway at 10.
“Here we go,” Mona says, bursting through the screen door and onto the front porch.
On the other hand, it looks like the owner of this fine establishment has had plenty of time to shower… among other things. “Are you wearing fake eyelashes?”
“Yeah, they’re great. Aren’t they?”
She’s actually excited about this near-certain disaster in the making. I don’t know whether to feel sympathy or shake some sense into her. She put on a dress for these people and her signature rhinestone Kippys belt. I’m leaning toward shaking some sense.
“Remind yourself that he’s a bad man,” I feel the need to say out loud while the two of us stand side by side, staring into the distance like we’re in eighteenth-century England waiting for the Lord and Lady of the manor to return home.
“Will do.”
“You are not to trust him.”
“Never,” she coos indulgently. Her glossy lips spread into a bright grin, dimples on full display. She fluffs her hair and runs her polished fingertips through the ends.
We’re doomed.
A Mercedes with all-black tinted windows is the first to pull up to the house. It’s followed closely by a silver Airstream trailer the size of a 747 Boeing jetliner hauled by a pickup truck. A black Range Rover is next. Pulling up the rear is a vintage Mustang Cobra, Shane Hughes behind the wheel.
Aidan Hughes steps out of the back of the Mercedes and the surprise is audible. I’m almost certain I just heard Mona suck in a breath. Not because of the earth-shattering beauty he’s known for or the blockbuster charisma that has people forking over their hard-earned dollars just to watch him do stuff on screen. Noooo. That is not why. The very opposite of that, in fact.
His light brown hair is in dire need of a cut, and frankly, a wash. Good rule of thumb: if I can tell from a distance that you’ve gone a week without holding a bottle of shampoo, then we have a problem. In addition to that, his face is covered in an unkempt beard, and he’s wearing a shapeless, faded US Army t-shirt with black track pants that have seen better days. I won’t mince words, he looks ripe enough for children and dogs to avoid him on a sidewalk. Heck, even vagrants.
I don’t doubt he’s had a tough couple of weeks, but this is dramatic. Even for an actor.
“Poor baby,” I hear Mona whisper.
This can’t go unchallenged so I turn to face her with a questioning glance.
“He’s obviously depressed,” she continues, hiding the last word behind her hand.
“Really?” I cynically drawl.
“Yes, really.” She shakes her head. “Look at him.”
My eyes focus on the ankle monitor he’s wearing and I’m reminded why he’s here. Jess told me he drove his fancy car into someone’s house, narrowly missing an old lady and her cat. In my past life, I would’ve been called out to the scene of the crime. The only thing saving him from my abject scorn is that he was neither high nor drunk and didn’t hurt anyone. I’ll chalk it up to stupidity for now. Until I know him better. In the meantime, I’ll reserve my sympathy for someone who deserves it.
“Look, I’m sorry he’s having a personal crisis of sorts––I get it,” I admit in a hushed voice, knowing what it feels like to get stuck in a dark place you don’t know how to crawl out of. “I really do. But cruising into someone’s living room isn’t the answer to any problem. He’s an insanely wealthy celebrity with the world at his disposal. He should’ve gotten help.”
My answer to his personal troubles is if you can’t help yourself, help someone else in need instead of acting recklessly.
“Maybe he doesn’t know how,” Mona muses out loud. Her kindness knows no limits. Then, gospel truth, she says, “He needs us.”
“This isn’t an episode of Touched By An Angel. What he needs is a shower, a shave, and a very good therapist.”
But who knows? Maybe she’s right. Maybe being here and helping with the rescues will reform him. Maybe he’s really misunderstood. Maybe he will surprise me in a good way.
Car doors open and slam shut. People pile out. A whirlwind of activity happens. Two men unhook the trailer from the pickup. Louis Vuitton suitcases get unloaded from the back of the Mercedes.
The door to the Mustang Cobra swings open and Shane Hughes slides out of the driver’s seat like he’s selling men’s deodorant to testosterone-deficient teenage boys, in slow motion and exuding more confidence than any one man should ever possess.
He just jolted me out of the narcolepsy I was experiencing only seconds ago. I’m suddenly awake and paying attention.
For instance, I’m keenly aware of the dark jeans hugging his butt. And the white t-shirt stretching across his chest and biceps. The leather cuff wrapped around one wrist? That doesn’t escape my notice. Neither does the chain that hangs out of the back pocket of his jeans attached to his belt. No one in their right mind would attempt to lift this guy’s wallet, but I dig the hint of danger it insinuates.
I declare that I’m on a man-fast and almost immediately, the universe, in its infinite wisdom, delivers this temptation to my doorstep. If I was into conspiracy theories, I’d be cooking one up right about now.
Eyes hidden under aviators, his head swivels right and left until he finds me and locks on. Then something strange happens… he tips his chin at me before walking off in the direction of the guesthouse with an army green duffel bag in hand.