Starlight (Peaches Monroe) (Volume 2) Paperback – September 2, 2013 (11 page)

Golden and Adrian? Blech.

Because I still had a lingering crush on him from high school, I didn’t like the idea of Golden putting her tiny paws all over him, so I wrote back:
Is Adrian depressed about his recent life failure? Maybe he’s on one of those anti-anxiety medications that makes your willy soft.

Then I cackled to myself like an evil witch in a Disney movie. (Not Ursula.) I wasn’t going to hit the send button, but then the witch in me made me do it, and my words flew off.

Next, I opened up the one and only text message from Dalton. I was expecting him to tell me again I was being ridiculous, blaming him for something in a script, or maybe even for him to beg me to come back to him. (It would feel amazing to say no.) What I didn’t expect was a simple, two-word message:
I understand.

What the fuck did that mean?

I understand.

WHAT?

I gave the phone some serious facial expressions and jabbed out a response:
GOOD.

Then I sent the missive, and immediately wanted to take the message back. Saying nothing at all would have been the appropriate thing to do, but I can’t shut myself up—not in person, and not on the phone.

My best friend and roommate, Shayla, had sent me two messages.

Shayla, 6:37pm:
I’m serving a table of adorable firemen and they won’t even flirt with me. I’m going to change into Trisha’s tiny shirt, and if I don’t get at least one number, I’m going to quit this stupid job, because there are no perks.

Shayla, 7:40pm:
Your roommate is unemployed! Hey, do they need any extra help at the bookstore?

It was ten o’clock on the nose when I wrote her back:
Please tell me you didn’t actually quit. How can we afford all our fancy brand name salad dressing if we’re not a double income household?

I tried to hide my concern with a joke, but I actually was worried. I’d be getting some money from the modeling and underwear line, but not pay-the-whole-rent money.

Shayla:
I got a raise! I quit, and then Cameron hired me back for another two hundred a month!

Me:
At last, Cameron does something decent and useful for a change.

She sent back a smilie face, then phoned me instead of messaging.

“Talk fast. I have ten minutes for my break,” she said. “Did you find anything else exciting at Dalton’s house?”

“I’m not exactly staying there anymore,” I said, and then I explained everything from the last two days as best I could without triggering a pity party.

“I told you so,” she said.

Wait, that isn’t true.

She did NOT say
I told you so
. Not in so many words. But the consoling words she said next still carried that exact connotation.

“That fucking sucks donkey balls,” is what she actually said, which sounds empathetic, but she said it with no emotion at all.

“It does suck donkey balls.”

“We’ll get through this together,” she said, even though it sounded a lot like,
Next time, you’d better listen to me, you astoundingly stupid book-smart girl.

Attempting to lighten the mood, I said, “Keith is actually really fun. I hardly feel broken at all when I’m around him. Maybe there’s something to this whole rebound arrangement.”

“Hang on, I’m just Googling his name to find a picture of this Keith Raven dude, and… OH-MY-GOD.”

“Not bad, right?”

“That boy is so hot, you could use him to heat a whole room.”

I chuckled. “He’s in his bedroom right now, meditating.”

“Meditating? Oh, Peaches. The guys you pick. They just keep getting hotter and weirder.”

“I guess that’s my type.”

“What if Dalton begs to get you back? Then you’ll have two guys fighting over you.”

“Not gonna happen. Dalton isn’t the begging type.”

“Still, he seemed really into you. And he’s back in town Wednesday?”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t matter, because I won’t see him ever again.”

“You can’t stay away from that man and you know it.”

“Whose side are you on?”

She grumbled something, then said, “Send me a selfie pic of you and Keith. I’ll know when I see you together.”

“No way. Our arrangement is just while I’m here. I don’t want any photos of us together, for me to sob over in the future when I’m feeling lonely.”

“No pictures together… except for the underwear campaign all over billboards and magazines.”

A wave of nausea washed over me like a sewer backup over basement carpet.

“I’ve made a huge mistake,” I whispered into the phone.

“At least your huge mistake has… hmm, I’m zooming in on a photo of Keith, and… holy breadsticks, that certainly is a huge mistake. I’ve seen huge mistakes before, but this one is making me re-think my life choices.”

“Stop looking at Keith like that,” I joked.

“Why don’t you come here and make me?” In the background, dishes crashed to the ground, followed by sarcastic applause. “Great,” she said, then, “I may need to quit again. That could be my new thing. I’ll keep quitting every shift.”

“I miss you, buddy.”

“I miss you, too. Hey, before I go, what’s wrong with Keith? Why aren’t you open to a relationship with him beyond this trip?”

Without thinking, I said, “He’s not Dalton.” Hearing my own words gave me a strange feeling, like walking by an electronics store and seeing your own face on the large TV.

“Interesting,” Shayla said smugly, then she was gone, and I was alone with the truth. I didn’t want to be with Dalton, but I didn’t want to be with anyone who wasn’t Dalton, either.

I rolled across the bed and stood the framed photo on the nightstand back up again. Katy and Tabitha. The nasty, overprotective sister, and the mysterious ex-girlfriend. His parents had let it slip during dinner that Tabitha was a model, and her career was doing well, albeit mostly catalog work and nothing too glamorous.

What was the story of their breakup, and why wouldn’t Keith tell me? Why did I care?

I came out of the room and gently tapped on Keith’s door. The earth muffin music was still playing, and he didn’t answer. I pushed open the door to find him sitting cross-legged on the bed, a relaxed expression on his face.

“How’s it going?” I asked.

His eyes stayed closed.

“You seem busy,” I said.

His mouth twitched up momentarily into a smile.

“Maybe I’ll just watch some TV,” I said, backing away.

He seemed to nod in agreement, so I closed the door again and went in search of the television.

After twenty minutes, I finally found the television, not in the most logical place—the large armoire in the living room—but inside a smaller armoire in the spare bedroom. Nestled in alongside the old tube-style set were multiple purple rocks—amethyst crystals—and a lamp made from a big yellowish rock that smelled like the ocean.

On a hunch, I leaned forward and licked the lamp. It was salt.

I settled in to watch some quality programming, but the salt taste in my mouth made me crave something to drink. Back out in the kitchen, I found some cranberry juice in the fridge. I should have known something was off when I poured the juice and saw that it was a little cloudy, and not as bright red as I was used to seeing it.

Have you ever taken a big glug of unsweetened cranberry juice? It’s like drinking straight lemon juice, only not as pleasant. As my face tried to invert itself via my mouth, I poured the death-juice back into the bottle and returned it to the fridge. After that, I didn’t trust anything in Keith’s kitchen I didn’t recognize the brand of, so I poured a glass of water and snagged some Premium Plus soup crackers (whole wheat, of course) to snack on.

Back in the bedroom, I wondered if I was going to get in trouble for eating crackers in the bed. I hoped I would, because then Keith would have to spank me.

Unfortunately for me and my spanking needs, Keith wasn’t very social the rest of the evening.

At one point, he came to the door and asked if I needed anything before he went to bed.

“Should I just sleep in this room again?” I asked, not sure where I stood.

“That might be better, considering we have the photo shoot bright and early tomorrow morning.”

“But this bed has cracker crumbs in it.”

Ignoring my confession, he came into the room and gave me a quick kiss. “Goodnight, gorgeous lady.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Raven. If I’m cramping your style, just let me know, and I’ll find somewhere else to bunk.”

“Nonsense.” He kissed me again, taking more time. His face smelled like scented candles. “Give me tonight to catch up on my sleep, and I’ll show you such a good time, you’ll never want to leave. You think my face is cute now, wait ’til you see it between your legs.” He licked his lips suggestively.

My eyes flew open and I was momentarily speechless, and then he was gone, off to the washroom to brush his teeth and torture me by leaving me hanging for the second time that day.

“Weirdo,” I grumbled after him, then I pulled out my phone to give Shayla a full report.

She replied:
That thingamafucker! You need to show him who’s in charge of the sex.

Me:
Call me a Wearer of Reasonable Shoes, but isn’t it supposed to be mutual?

Shayla:
You’re the one with the vagina, so start acting like it. You’re the tits! You’re the boss, baby!

Me:
Drunk?

Shayla:
I think it’s someone’s birthday… somewhere! LOL!

Me:
Have fun, and I’ll see you next Wednesday, if I don’t die of sexual frustration.

Shayla:
Someone just called me Cuntzilla. Is that a compliment?

Me:
Definitely.

Her next text was a photo of either her boobs or her butt, her flesh marked with a felt pen drawing of a penis. I’d like to say this was particularly shocking for a post-shift Monday night party at the restaurant she managed, but it was not atypical.

Tuesday morning, I insisted that I walk into the photographer’s studio ahead of Keith, so people wouldn’t know I’d been staying at his house. As far as they all knew, I was still dating Dalton Deangelo.

The same crew who’d been there Sunday were there again, plus about twice as many more people, though most of them were doing other shoots.

I said to the nice girl doing my makeup, “I guess I lucked out having my first shoot on the weekend, when it’s not so crazy around here.”

“It wasn’t luck,” she said, sounding like she had a truckload of gossip she was dying to unload, if only I’d say the magic words.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

She looked left and right. “I shouldn’t say.”

“I’m sure if it’s important enough for me to know, Mitchell will tell me. He’s really sweet. Come to think of it, everyone here has been so nice. I’m just a wide-eyed yokel from Washington, in way over my head.”

She pursed her lips. Oh yeah, the pre-gossip lip purse.

I was just about to crack the makeup girl. Any second now.

“You didn’t hear this from me,” she said. “Everyone was worried the photos were going to be a disaster. You-know-who had you come in on Sunday so there’d be fewer witnesses putting you here. They all had the big review on Monday. After a heated debate, they decided to move ahead with today’s shoot, but there’s a change. One change.”

I smiled sweetly and tried to make her feel good about giving me news that didn’t sound so good. A disaster? Because of me, no doubt. Coked-up starlets who showed up hours late were probably just fine, as long as they were skinny. But curvy me was going to ruin everyone’s reputation.

“I understand,” I said.

I understand.

The same phrase Dalton had sent me was so simple, yet vague enough to fit any heartbreaking situation.
I understand
, you say, as your heart and happiness shatters under the brutal sledgehammer of reality.

I closed my eyes and focused on not flipping out as she continued to work on my makeup. Flipping out now would get mascara in my eye, and I didn’t want that.

She wanted to tell me more details about Monday’s meeting, but I changed the topic, saying, “Are you from here? And if not, how long did it take you to get used to LA’s smell?”

“Oh, you have to get soy-based candles,” she said.

“For eating?”

“For burning. Regular candles put more toxins in the air.”

As she talked about the wonders of aromatherapy, I got more and more nervous about the one change she mentioned. What was the change?

Please, please let it be more airbrushing
, I prayed.