Edge of Glory (Friendship, Texas Book 1) (25 page)

“I don’t know. My car died. And I can’t get it started. I may have killed the battery. Or may-be the whole car.” Hell, I knew how to fill the gas tank, and change the oil, but don’t ask me about anything else.

“Is there someone you can call?” He looked past me to my phone on the dash.

I pulled it down. “Dead.”

Duck Man gave me a slight smile, that I could barely see through the hair on his face. “Not your day, is it?”

I couldn’t bring myself to smile back. “You have no idea.”

“Look, I can call a tow truck for you, but we need to get your car out of traffic.”

As he said this, a woman walked up to him. Tall with platinum blond spiral curls and ice blue eyes, she wore a black A-line mini skirt with a peach silk sleeveless shirt that had thin black pip-ing. I wished I could see her shoes. Priorities.

“Hugo, I have places to be. Everyone else is just going around.” She looked at me and smiled.

I smiled back, even though I wanted to tell her to fuck off.

His look shut her up. “Take the car. I’ll call Timmy and have him come and get me. I’m not going to leave her stranded.”

“Suit yourself.” She turned on her heel without giving me a second glance, and strode away.

“Sorry about her, she’s a little…never mind.”

I heard an engine rev, and then a Bentley SUV pulled around the passenger side. I may not know much about how cars work, but I know cars. That was a Bentley Bentayga. When you dress some of the wealthiest women in Hollywood and Southern California, you learn about these things.

“But that was your ride,” I said.

He looked up from texting on his phone. “No, that was her ride. It was my car,” he said. Then he looked at his watch. “My driver should be here in a few minutes. Let’s see what we can do to get you out of the intersection.”

“You mean like push my car?” Did I mention my idea of exercise was lifting piles of clothes and putting them on racks?

“I’ll push. You turn your key like you’re going to start the car, but not far enough to start, then put it in neutral. I’ll try to block traffic, so we can get you over to the curb.”

I did as I was told, and waited for Duck Man to tell me when to turn my wheel.

He walked out in front of my car, looked around, then held up his hands like a traffic cop and everyone stopped. They probably thought he had a bomb. He looked that crazy, with his beard, graphic T-shirt, and board shorts. But it was the camouflage Crocs that put it over the top.

He ran back to my car and said, “Neutral, put in neutral,” as he went to the back and pushed.

I felt guilty that no one even tried to help us. Duck Man pushed my car over to the right, across three lanes of traffic. Once I’d maneuvered up near the shoulder of the road, I put my car in park. As soon as the traffic cleared, I opened the door to get out of my car when I remembered another shitty part of my last few days. Or pissy might be more precise.

Somewhere around the border of Arizona and New Mexico, I got a UTI. I cursed myself for not getting up to pee after the last time Miles and I had sex. Having a urinary tract infection is bad enough when you have time to go to the doctor and get the pills to take care of it, but when you have to stop at Walmart to get the over the counter stuff, just to get you through, it’s a driv-ing nightmare.

Along with sleeping in my car, I’d been peeing carrot juice, and wearing Depends pads. Any woman who has ever had a UTI understands. I couldn’t exactly drive the ten thousand miles from L.A. to Texas and stop every five minutes to find a bathroom, or pee on the side of the road. I bought the medication, which didn’t work worth a crap, and a package of Depends pads, and pretty much peed in my pants until the medication took effect enough to let me drive without the constant urge to pee. That was about three hours earlier, and I hadn’t stopped because I was so close to home.

Screw it, even in dirty yoga pants and a Depends pad that could likely be seen through the tight fabric, I still couldn’t look as bad as the Duck Dynasty guy. I lifted my arm to smell my pits. Gag! How had I not smelled that earlier. I reeked, and I didn’t have time to grab my deodo-rant from my handbag and sneak some on without being noticed. It was at least seventy-five de-grees, but I grabbed my oversized sweater from the back seat and pulled it over my head. The added bonus, other than covering my ripe odor, it covered my ass too.

I adjusted the sweater as I got out of my car and walked to the sidewalk. Duck Man stood a few feet away, talking on his phone. I didn’t want to interrupt, so I kept my distance. This also kept him from getting too close a look at me, or smell me. I’m a freaking personal stylist, and I couldn’t have looked worse. Not a good first impression, no matter if I was meeting a homeless guy. The thing was, he smelled like a very expensive cologne. I couldn’t quite put a name on the fragrance, but I’d smelled it before.

When he hung up, he said, “Sorry, that was my driver. He’s caught in traffic. He’ll be late.”

His driver, right. But then, he’d said that Bentley belonged to him. Who was this guy?

Standing on the side of the road with a complete stranger, who for all I knew was the Dallas Strangler, everything I owned in my car that had likely taken its last breath, wearing a Depends, I started to shake.

“May I use your phone?” I had to call my parents, or my brother. Someone had to come and get me. And my stupid car.

He looked at me, hesitated, then handed me the phone. A new iPhone…wait…had this ver-sion even hit the market yet?

I called my dad.

Voice mail.

I called my brother.

Voice mail.

Now the tears flowed. It was all too much.

Through the blubbering, I said, “I need to call for a tow truck, but I haven't lived here in al-most eight years, so I have no idea who to call.” I gripped his phone in my hand.

Caveman pried it from my fingers and pushed one button. “Bobby, get me a tow truck at State and Main. And find out what’s taking Timmy so damn long.” A pause. “He can’t miss us. We’re standing outside the strip mall by CVS Pharmacy. It’s a white Jetta, looks like the person lives in it.”

That’s when the reality of the situation kicked in. I looked at my car from his point of view. I looked like a hoarder. A bit of a giggle slipped in between my tears. A hoarder or a homeless person. Judging a book by its cover. Hadn’t I just done the same? I guess homeless fit me at that moment. Homeless and jobless.

It all came out in a rush. “I’ve been living in it for the last three days. I’m moving back here from California. I was afraid if I got a hotel, someone would break in and steal my things. And since this is everything I have in the world at the moment, I wasn't willing to let any of it go.” Why was I telling his hairy stranger about my last few days?

“Moved in a hurry?” Again, I saw his perfect teeth.

I sobbed. “I walked in on my boyfriend having sex with my boss. I’d just moved in with him, a couple of months ago, and I really thought he was the one. We had so much in common. Ap-parently, more than I knew. I went back to the office to pick up accessories I’d forgotten for a client, and there they were, going at it on my boss’s desk. The sad thing was, I’d been so excited to see his car in the parking lot less than a minute before.”

He said, “Oh, shit.”

Blurry through my tears, I couldn’t see his face, but I’ll bet he was thinking, Where’s my driver, so I can get away from this crazy chick.

I couldn’t stop myself. I kept blubbering. It was the first I’d told anyone. “I turned and walked out without getting what I needed. I went straight to his place and packed up all of my belongings as fast as I could, then got in my car and drove east.”

I stopped to catch my breath.

“Did you get out of there before he got home?” he asked.

“I don’t think he bothered to even come home. I could have taken the time to trash the place if I’d wanted. But that’s not me. I wanted to be that person, but I couldn’t. And for the last three days, I’ve mulled over how I could have done it differently.”

I took a deep breath. He said nothing.

“As I was driving away from the apartment I got a text in all caps from my boss. She wanted to know why I hadn’t shown up to the client’s house for the trunk show.”

“Bitch,” he said.

“Right?” It felt good to hear someone else say it.

“So, you never heard from him. No apology. Nothing?”

“My voicemail is full and texted me at least a dozen times, begging me to call him, so maybe. But call him? For what? So he could explain?”

He laughed.

“It’s not funny.”

“It sort of is. I mean, what the hell was he going to say? ‘It’s not what you think. I wasn’t sticking my dick in her.’”

“Funny and sad. He broke my heart.”

He stopped laughing. Very seriously, he said, “They don’t really break.”

What the hell was wrong with me? This poor guy. He’d been nice enough to help me when no one else would, and I’d nearly cried on his shoulder. I may as well tell him I was wearing a diaper. No, I wasn't going that far. And what did I expect him to say? “I guess for people who don’t have a heart. But then again, not everyone is given the same type of heart.”

“Life isn’t fair.”

I wasn’t so sure I liked this guy. Nice enough to stop and help, but he didn’t seem to have real feelings. Maybe he lacked empathy. Maybe he’d never had a broken heart? He probably didn’t make it into civilized society much, looking like he preferred being off the grid. Not my problem anyway, other than to thank him and be grateful that he had enough empathy to stop and help me.

I wiped my tears with the hem of my sweater and I put my hand out. “I don't believe I’ve thanked you yet. Thank you so much for stopping to help. I appreciate it.”

He shook my hand. A hearty shake, with the right amount of grip. The hands of a man who didn't work physical labor for a living. If that was his Bentley, point made. “Any gentleman would have done the same. We’re just lacking those in our society today, it seems. I’m Hugo Po-povits, by the way.”

And now I knew why the platinum blond chick looked so chic, Stella Popovits. The Popovits twins. Popo Oil Industries. I did my best to hide my fan girl moment. Stella oozed style supreme.

“I’m Maisy Tucker. I used to be a personal stylist to the stars, now I’m an unemployed girl living with her parents in Dallas, nice to meet you, Hugo.” Oh my God, what did I just say? He probably didn’t even want my name, much less my life story again.

“What exactly does a stylist to the stars do?” he asked.

He had to be yanking my chain, but his perplexed expression said otherwise.

I hip checked him. “You don’t think those busy starlets have time to put their wardrobes to-gether by themselves, do you? That they have all that fashion sense, and just look that cute all the time because they’re so adorable? Oh, no, no. They hire a stylist, who helps them find their look, then puts together clothes that make them look chic. Or fabulous. Or outrageous. They choose, we pull together the outfits. And when we’re not around, they have cheat cards to help them re-member what looks good with what.”

His unibrow raised. “Really? Is that how my sister does it? Because when we were kids, she couldn’t even match her socks.”

I really had no idea. But I’d love a chance to style Stella. I mean, getting a chance to work with such an icon outside of So Cal would put me on the map. And I didn’t even have so much as a business card. Life isn’t fair.

“She may just be fashion forward. She is beautiful.” With that hair, and those eyes, she could walk around in a bathrobe from Motel 6, if they offered one, and she’d be the talk of the town.

Hugo looked at his phone, then at me. “Stella is many things. I don’t think fashion forward is one of them.”

I elbowed him gently. “Do tell,” I said, then laughed, “I’m kidding.”

Hugo looked up the road. “Well, Maisy, your tow truck is here. And it looks like my driver is right behind him. It was a pleasure meeting you. I do hope we meet again.”

We shook hands again, and I looked past his hairy face to his eyes. They were icy blue like his sister’s. Only hers had a warmth behind them, his gave me a chill. Friendly as he seemed, no light shined in his eyes. Something sad lurked there.

To read the rest of Hello, click here to purchase the novel.

About Jamie Lee Scott

Jamie is the USA Today bestselling author of the Gotcha Detective Agency Mysteries.

With Hello, she’s diving into the world of romantic comedy with a vengeance.

When Jamie’s not writing, she’s riding, or making films.

She lives on a small farm with her husband, two dogs, two cats, and three horses. In her spare time she’s a competitive barrel racer and award winning screenwriter.

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