Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 111443 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111443 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
I chuckled at her bawdy antics. Macy loved to shock. I’d known her for too long to give it a second thought, but I appreciated that she still made an effort to throw me off my game. I couldn’t claim it was part of our schtick—it was just Macy.
She was a former Hollywood starlet in her midfifties who’d lost her bloom a few decades ago to a crooked agent, a coke habit, and some sketchy plastic surgery. Her cheekbone implant hadn’t gone as well as the boob job, but she was still very pretty…albeit in more of an aging showgirl way that sadly, didn’t appeal to casting directors on a reliable basis.
Macy claimed not to care. She used her height, pouty pink lips, and flirty charms to win big tips from the clientele at Casa del Sol. She didn’t think twice about squeezing into short skirts and shirts with plunging necklines. However, in adherence to the restaurant’s uniform, she currently wore a button-straining white oxford shirt, tight black pants, and knee-high boots with neon pink pom-poms that matched the scarf tied around her long platinum ponytail.
“I hope that’s not true. I need to make some quick money.”
I tied my apron as I scanned the kitschy Mexican restaurant I’d called my second home for the past five years. Sombreros and colorful ponchos hung on the walls above the green-and-red leatherette booths. A smattering of round tables anchored the midsection and spilled onto the outdoor patio. The happy-hour crowd stuck to the bar at this time of day, leaving the main dining room nearly empty, except for the couple making gooey eyes at each other over a basket of tortilla chips.
“Join the club. I’m not gonna be able to afford my acrylics next month if Ravi doesn’t put me in the bar or make me his assistant.” She tossed a longing glance to her right and sighed. “What I really need is to land that stand-in gig for Jennifer Coolidge. I’d be a fuckin’ natural. No dialogue. Just two weeks’ worth of posing…for good dough.”
I crossed my fingers. “When do you find out?”
“Today, tomorrow? I don’t know. I’m wearing my good luck perfume and my magic crystal.” She pulled the pink shard of glass hanging from a silver chain out of her shirt and kissed it before turning to the bar. “Did Derian tell you he got that commercial?”
“No. Really?” I put two fingers to my mouth and whistled. The shrill sound barely made a dent over the mariachi music piped into the bar area, but the bartender on duty looked up on cue. “Yo, congrats, man.”
Derian flashed a megawatt grin…the one that usually earned him extra tips. It was true. Der was hot as fuck. His dark-blond, blue-eyed, all-American good looks turned a few heads. Which the owner probably figured was good for business. He was one of our newer bartenders…and like almost everyone who worked here, he was an actor.
The restaurant was a starving artists’ refuge owned by a B-movie star from the sixties who’d relocated to Palm Springs a decade ago, leaving Ravi in charge with strict instructions to hire struggling performers. The fact that I’d been here so long told the story of my sputtering career.
I pasted a smile on my face and nodded, although I couldn’t hear a word of whatever Derian was yelling from the bar area. “What’s he saying?” I asked Macy.
“It’s an erectile dysfunction commercial,” she deadpanned.
“No shit?” I laughed.
“Yep, he gets to wow the camera with his smoldering hotness, holding hands with a beautiful babe while a narrator tells the nation that Derian can’t get it up.” Macy smacked her gum. “Lucky him.”
I hooted. “Whatever pays the bills. What section am I in tonight?”
“Two.” She pointed at the row of booths against the wall but kept her eyes on me. “Your aura is better today. And you’re smiling. Musta gotten laid. Fold those napkins and tell me about all about it, big guy.”
I washed my hands at the kitchen basin and got to work. And no…I did not share any salacious details about last night. Maybe that made me a sentimental fool, but you know what? I felt oddly protective of my evening with Seb. I couldn’t say why. It was over and done, never to be repeated, but what had happened between us was mine. And it felt more real than anything I’d done in a while…and special.
We’d shared secrets, bonded over burgers, and fucked like bunnies in heat, then slept with our limbs entwined like an old married couple. And had pushed Repeat when we woke up.
Less than twelve hours ago.
The memory of his warm skin and bleary-eyed smile was strong. I didn’t want to cheapen it by dishing deets. Even with a trusted friend like Macy.
But I could share a few things.