Hot in Hellcat Canyon (13 page)

Only in reverse.

Everything was now dimmer. She was a little afraid he’d permanently altered her body chemistry by his mere proximity.

Just two days ago she’d been content with the rhythm of her days. Now she knew “content” was a synonym for “safe little box.”

She took a deep breath and typed some search terms in the browser window.

She’d promised herself she wasn’t going to Google him again. But this wasn’t frivolous, voyeuristic Googling, she told herself. It was a fact-finding mission inspired by a sentence he’d uttered today. Which was:

“Can’t remember the last time I did that.”

Slammed a headboard, that was. With a noisy and willing partner.

What she discovered was that while Rebecca Corday was linked with Anthony Underhill and was seen in photos grinning her eight-mile-wide grin alongside him in various venues, from restaurants to red carpets, as far as she could tell, J. T. hadn’t been photographed with a woman anywhere.

She couldn’t find a single photo of him with a woman on the internet for at least the last six months.

Though there were photos of him out with what looked like his buddies at lunch, and one of him leaving a karate dojo in Los Angeles. But if any women had been in the picture, J. T. had definitely kept it on the down low.

He was only going to be in Hellcat Canyon for a little while. He’d be out of here in time for Felix Nicasio’s wedding for sure, which was in about a month.

Some women might put that in the “con” column.

For her purposes, she decided it belonged in the “pro” column.

In the sidebar of one of the pages with the photos was a link to an article intriguingly entitled, “Top Ten Reasons Rebecca Corday is better off without John Tennessee McCord.”

Yikes.

It was quite a list. Snarky and juvenile and absolute clickbait for lovers of Hollywood gossip. But it was Number Eight that caught her eye.

8. Because he’s allergic to the “L” word.

Britt exhaled.

Ironically, she’d put that in the “pro” column, too.

Her plan was taking shape.

She liked that her solution was still technically a box, in that it had parameters and a finite volume. So there was comfort in that. The parameters were defined by a guy who in all likelihood wouldn’t want anything more from her than a good time, who had known commitment issues (he’d never moved in with Rebecca Corday, after all), and would be gone in a couple of months.

Inside
that box could be lot of hot sex.

Provided, that was, she saw him again. He didn’t seem like a guy who gave up, however.

She sat in thoughtful silence for quite some time. She pulled her sketch pad into her lap, and stared down at that empty white page.

And then her pencil began to fly.

She reveled in creating in the arch of a neck, expressive angled ears, the curve of a haunch, the length of the spine, the flow of a mane and a tail.

And because it was standing on its hind legs, she dressed the horse in jeans.

And cowboy boots.

And then, as a coup de grâce, she drew a black T-shirt on him. It was snug at the top and a little loose at the waist.

She laughed at herself.

But with that one final touch, John Tennessee McCord was officially a horse.

The one she intended to get back up on.

CHAPTER 7

J
. T. had his truck back at around three o’clock the next day. He immediately took it for an almost giddy drive around town, as if he’d just been sprung from the pokey. He stopped in at the grocery store for some real food, including sandwiches and a few packaged salads, startling all the clerks into wide-eyed speechlessness. He drove past the fountain in the town square, past the town hall, past a few Victorians that straight-up qualified as mansions, and through, on a whim, a pretty little trailer park called Heavenly Shores even though no body of water was in sight. It was apparently a retirement community. He waved at two senior ladies hanging out on their porches, chatting and knitting. They waved gaily back.

All roads, alas, eventually of course led right back to the Angel’s Nest.

J. T. took a long hot shower and rubbed his own sandalwood soap in his armpits lest he besmirch the angel soap. He ate his grocery store sandwich and salad and tried to write his damn wedding toast for Felix, but he couldn’t hear his own thoughts over Kevin and Cherisse. The headboard bamming next door had yielded to loud arguing.

“You never listen to anything I say!” poor Cherisse was sobbing.

“You never stop talking! How am I supposed to listen to
all
of it?”

Kevin, the poor schmuck, sounded genuinely tormented.

J. T. sighed, made a fist and gave the wall a couple of good hard thumps.

They clammed up.

“Don’t go carving your initials in the Eternity Oak, now, ya hear?” he muttered dryly.

He was just reaching for his Kindle again when another text chimed in. He glanced at his phone.

It was Missy Van Cleve.

Tensnesseee I’m drunk and homey.

He frowned. “Homey” was the last thing Missy Van Cleve was. He’d heard the word “flawless” used to describe her, but an allegedly perfect waist-to-hip-to-bust ratio (which she’d once pointed out in an interview) did not, in his book, add up to flawless. She was famous for being famous, and she was most guys’ definition of hot, but she was also so vapid it entered the realm of surreal and was
almost
funny. He’d gone out with her once, and decided life was too short, which is how he knew he was getting older.

But apparently he’d made quite an impression on her. Because she kept in touch. Usually when she was drunk.

A few seconds later:

I mean drunk homey.

A few seconds later.

Homey! I’m drunk and homey!

Where are you Tesnnsesse I’m drunk and homey! I’m coming right over

He could ignore her and hope she got tired of sending drunk texts and eventually passed out.

Or . . . he could have a little fun.

He texted:

Do you mean by any chance drunk and horny, Missy?

She texted back:

That’s what I said!

He texted:

Get a cab from wherever you are to 11493 Excelsior. Tell the driver the guy who answers the door will pay your fare.

In about a half hour, Franco Francone would have his hands full of a drunk, homey, unruly, incensed Missy Van Cleve.

J. T. grinned.

His smile vanished when “Taking Care of Business” erupted from his phone. His agent was calling instead of texting. Which could pretty much only mean one thing.

J. T.’s heart went from about zero to ninety just like that.

He took a couple of deep breaths before he answered.

“Hey Al.”

“It’s a no on
Last Call in Purgatory
, J. T. It’s a no they delivered with convincing anguish, but it’s a no.”

Al was a big believer in ripping the Band-Aid off quickly.

J. T.’s breath whooshed out of him.

“They thought you were amazing,” Al went on. “They never dreamed anyone could be so perfect for a part. They made it sound like it was a reenactment of
Twelve Angry Men
in there, deliberating every point of your performance for days. They really wanted you. They pleaded for you. The director says you’re everything he ever envisioned. But the producers are worried you can’t open the film big enough, and your sketchy track record . . .”

“. . . is ten years old,” J. T. said tersely. “If that’s what they’re worried about. I mostly haven’t been an asshat in public or on a movie set for ten years, anyway. Look at my work on
Agapé 
. . .”

Even as he said it, J. T. knew that the producers knew all of this, and knew all about
Agapé
, too.

“Yeah. Well. I think they know that and the producers just wanted to whip out an excuse. You know how jumpy they get when money’s at stake. I guess they want the pope or someone infallible for the part. But it’s really about the money and the numbers, J. T. It’s what it always boils down to.”

J. T. was numb. The word
no
hadn’t quite sunk all the way through him yet.

“Do they want me cheaper?”

“They won’t get you cheaper. We both know what you’re worth.”

J. T. was in agreement with that.

He was silent.

Al let him be silent.

“They have anybody else yet?” J. T. finally said.

“Nope. They’re still looking for the female lead, though. Threw out a few names you might know.”

Al did irony
very
well. J. T. could just imagine what one of those names was.

He closed his eyes, mouthed an expletive.

“Would you rather I’d waited until morning to tell you?” Al was sympathetic but there was a hint of laughter in his voice, as if he’d once again heard loud and clear the word “Fuck.”

“No, because I needed an incentive to go out and get drunk tonight and you provided it.”

“That’s my boy,” his agent said complacently. “Just don’t do it in front of any cameras, if you can help it.”

J. T. gave a short, humorless laugh.

“I
am
sorry, J. T.”

“Yeah, don’t be. We both know how it is.”

“And you never know,” his agent said.

“You never know,” J. T. said.

The Hollywood motto. You never know.

They signed off.

He sat motionless on the edge of the bed for a moment. He took a long breath. His lungs burned strangely. No matter how hard you tried, hope took up residence almost like a pumping organ and when it was gone you sure noticed.

When it was gone was when you truly knew the measure of how badly you wanted something.

He’d
badly
wanted this part.

“FUCK,” he said, with great, resonant sincerity.

Either Kevin or Cherisse thumped the wall.

J. T. thumped it back twice, harder. “Take it as a suggestion!” he yelled. Even though they’d probably miss the irony.

There was no return thump.

There might, however, be a return noisy revenge hump.

He had to get out of this room.

He looked up at the wall. A cherub was gazing at him with limpid sympathy.

J. T.
almost
appreciated it in that moment.

His eyes flew around the room like a prisoner in a cell looking for an escape. And his eyes lit upon the little bright pink flyer featuring Hellcat Canyon’s Calendar of Events.

Tonight was Open Mic Night at the Misty Cat.

He plucked it off the desk and stared at it.

And then something occurred to him.

There was a silver lining here, and she had green eyes and a sweet body and a sharp wit on her.

He’d never gotten more than three no’s in a row in his entire life.

That could only mean one thing: he sure as hell wasn’t going to get another one tonight.

T
he tables at the Misty Cat were about a quarter full when he arrived a little before seven in the evening. Plenty of parking on the street. Not a really hopping night, apparently. Possibly because it was a weeknight. Possibly it never was.

A few tables were occupied by guys who were already loud thanks to beer.

A big chalkboard had been propped up on an easel and it read:

TUESDAY IS OPEN MIC NIGHT!

Open Mic Night Sign-up

Glory Hallelujah Greenleaf
was written on the board in pink chalk. It was the only name so far.

He looked about, but he didn’t see Britt right off.

But a girl who must be Glory Hallelujah Greenleaf was up on the stage, an acoustic guitar on her lap. She was tuning it.

An old bearded guy, wiry and small but surprisingly lissome, was on the floor in front of the stage, swaying and waving his arms around.

“You sit down, Marvin Wade, I don’t care how many drugs you did in the seventies, this ain’t no Grateful Dead show and I will not have you doing a swirly dance while I’m playing. This is a listening song. Or maybe . . . a make-out song.”

She flipped a sheet of long black hair over her shoulder, to a chorus of whistles and lascivious hoots. She was wearing a lacy sort of bustier-esque top that owed something to Stevie Nicks, and she had a very appealing rack.

“Take it off!” some doofus inevitably shouted.

“Yeah, Glory, show us your ti—”

“LANGUAGE!” Glenn bellowed as he strolled across the floor scooping up empty beer bottles, probably the world’s most futile admonishment. “This ain’t the Plugged Nickel!”

J. T. made a mental note to find out what the Plugged Nickel might be and where it was. If he had to guess, it was in the scary, in other words, interesting, part of Hellcat Canyon that Rosemary had warned him about and Britt had described pretty colorfully.

“There ain’t enough money in the world to get me to show them . . .” Glory Greenleaf paused. “. . . to you, Truck.”

“Hoooooooeeee!” A gleeful chorus and a few high-fives were exchanged.

The inevitable heckling lunkheads aside, this was a girl, J. T. was certain, who knew how to incite a riot, and might just do it in order to observe it, the way a pyromaniac stands back and admires the fires he sets.

She settled onto the chair and pulled the microphone up to her face, squinting in the overhead stage light. She had cheekbones cut like diamonds.

He suspected she was a dangerous little thing.

He’d been completely inoculated against dangerous little things ever since 1995, when one had keyed his car and set fire to the ficus on his front porch after he’d been photographed with his arm around another woman.

Lighting something on fire was a surefire way to get a lesson to stick, as far as he was concerned.

A brief shot of warm air against his cheek made him turn toward the door. A guy with a badge, who must be the sheriff, had quietly slipped into the Misty Cat and was leaning against the wall behind him, mostly in shadow, unobserved, as all faces were turned toward the stage.