The Things She Says (2 page)

“Not a chance,” she said. “I have to put my uniform on, then I’ll take your order.”

He glanced at the other customers, who weren’t ashamed to be caught in open inspection of the foreigner in their midst. “You work here?”

His accent was amazing. The words were English, a language she’d used her entire life, but every syllable sounded exotic and special. It was the difference between Detroit and Italy—both produced cars, but the end result had little in common other than tires and a steering wheel.

And it was way past time to stop rubbernecking. “Uh, yeah. Five days a week.”

Her brothers lumbered off their stools at the counter. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched them hulk over to the booth.

“Who’s the pansy?” Lenny sneered. VJ butted him in the chest with her shoulder until he glanced down.

“Back off,” she demanded. “He’s just passing through and no threat to you. Let him be.”

Lenny flicked her out of the way as if she weighed no more than a feather.

Before she’d fully regained her balance, Kris exploded from the booth and descended by her side, staring down Lenny and Billy without flinching. Okay, so maybe he didn’t actually need defending. Her heart tumbled to her knees as he angled his body, shielding her, unconcerned about the five hundred pounds of Lewis boys glaring at him. Nobody in Little Crooked Creek stood up to even one of her brothers, let alone two. He really
was
heroic.

“Kristian Demetrious. You are?” His face had gone hard and imperious—warrior-like, about to charge into battle, sword drawn and shield high. As if she needed another push to imagine him as her fantasy knight, come to rescue her from Small Town, USA.

Then his full name registered.

She blinked rapidly, but the image in black didn’t waver. Kristian Demetrious was standing in the middle of Pearl’s. No one would believe it. Pictures. Should she take pictures? He looked totally different in person. Gak, he probably thought she was a complete hick for not recognizing him. She had to call Pamela Sue this very minute.

Right after she made sure Lenny and Billy weren’t about to wipe the floor with Kyla Monroe’s fiancé.

“These are two of my brothers. They like to play rough but they’re mostly harmless,” she said to Kris. “I apologize. They don’t get day passes from the mental institution very often.”

With a hard push to each of her brothers’ chests, she said, “Go sit down and drink another cup of coffee on me. Cool off. Mr. Demetrious isn’t here to pick a fight with you.”

And just by saying his name, Kris turned into someone remote and inaccessible. A stone rolled onto her chest. He was Kyla Monroe’s fiancé. Of course he was. Men like him were always with women like Kyla—gorgeous, elegant and famous, with a shelf full of awards. Well, she’d known her Greek knight was out of her league but she hadn’t known he was
that
far out. Actually, she’d thought maybe he was flirting with her a little—but he couldn’t have been. She’d misinterpreted his innocent comments, twisting them into something out of a romance novel.

Lenny and Billy skulked away, shooting spiteful glances over their shoulders, and hefted themselves onto their stools, where they eyed Kris over their earthenware mugs. Cretins.

“I’m afraid you’ve discovered my secret superpower. I’m a moron magnet.” She met Kris’s eyes. “Thanks. For standing up for me.”

How inadequate. But what could she say to encapsulate the magic of that defense from someone like Kristian Demetrious? Small to him, huge to her.

He shrugged and flipped hair out of his face, looking uncomfortable. “One of my hot buttons. So, it’s Mr. Demetrious now?” He slid onto the bench. All the hard edges melted and he smiled wryly when she opted to remain standing. She couldn’t sit at the same table like they were even remotely in the same stratosphere. “I’m not a fan of formality. I introduced myself as Kris for a reason. Can’t we go back to being friendly?”

His smile was so infectious, so stunning as it spread over his straight, white teeth, she returned it before catching herself. “No, we can’t. My mama raised me to be respectful.”

“I liked it better when you were being disrespectful.” He sighed. “Obviously you know who I am. I’m going to guess it’s because of Kyla and not because you’ve seen my films.”

“Sorry. I read
People
magazine, of course, but we’re lucky to get a couple of wide releases at the theater in Van Horn. For this corner of the world, the films you direct are entirely too...what’s the word?” She snapped her fingers.
“Cosmopolitan.”

“Obscure,”
he said at the same time, and something passed across his features. Determination. Passion. “That’s going to change. Soon.”

“I have to clock in.” And put some distance between them before she asked him how and when. What his work was like, his plans. His dreams. She could listen to him talk all night. Sophisticated conversation, the likes of which she’d never had the opportunity to participate in.

She turned to go. His fingers grazed her arm, and tightened with a luscious pressure, holding her in place. What a thrill it would be to have that golden hand—both hands—wandering all over, undressing, caressing—and enough of that, now.

“Change fast. I’m starving,” he said, his eyes went liquid and a brow quirked up. Before realizing he was taken, that was the kind of comment she would have misread, mistaking his smoldering expression as invitation.

“You’re the boss. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

She edged away, terrified if she shifted her eyes, he’d disappear.

So what if he did? He belonged to Kyla Monroe, the blonde goddess of the screen.

Her stomach flipped. They were from different worlds. He was only here by an accident of navigation, not some divine plan to make all her wildest dreams come true.

Kristian Demetrious was another woman’s man who’d landed in the middle of Little Crooked Creek for a heartbeat and then would be gone.

Two

K
ris leaned against the hard booth and watched his desert mirage do a dozen mundane things. Punching her time card in the antiquated machine mounted to the wall of the open kitchen. Making a phone call at the honest-to-God pay phone nestled between the upright video game and the bathrooms.

She moved with vibrancy, like the progression of a blooming flower caught in time-release photographs. Suddenly bursting with color and life. Magnificence where a moment before had been nothing special. Where was his camera when he really needed it? Anything that visceral should be captured through the lens for all posterity.

No. Not for anyone else. Only for his private-viewing pleasure. A selfish secret celebrating artistry instead of capitalism. Maybe that was the key to unlocking the yet-to-be-conceptualized theme for
Visions of Black,
a frustration he’d carried for weeks.

The light in this dive was sallow and dim. All wrong. He’d position her outside, with the late-afternoon sun in her face and mountains rising behind in an uncultivated backdrop. Maybe an interview, so he could capture that mellifluous drawl and the unapologetic raw honesty. With VJ, everything was on the surface, in her eyes and on her tongue, and he was greedy for transparency after drowning in Hollywood games.

He’d left his condo in L.A. before dawn this morning, intending to drive straight through to Dallas, where he’d meet up with Kyla to start the engagement publicity and get rolling on preproduction work for
Visions.

But one more Kyla-free night now felt less like a reprieve and more like a requirement.

He just wanted to make films, not deal with financing and publicity and endless Hollywood bureaucracy.
Visions of Black
was the right vehicle to propel his career to the next level, with the perfect blend of accessible characters, high-stakes drama and a tension-filled plot. Audiences would love Kyla in the starring role, and her charisma on the screen was unparalleled. She was a necessary part of the package, first and foremost because executive producer Jack Abrams insisted, but Kris couldn’t disagree with the dual benefit of box-office draw and high-profile PR.

The need to commit this story to film flared strongly enough that he was willing to deal with his ex and any other obstacles thrown in his path.

Tomorrow.

VJ skirted the tables and rejoined him, smiling expectantly. “Fried chicken?”

“Absolutely.” Nobody in L.A. ate fried chicken and the hearty smell of it had been teasing him since he walked through the door. “And a beer.”

“Excellent choice. Except you’re in the middle of the Bible Belt. Coke instead?” she offered.

“You don’t serve alcohol?” A glance around the diner answered that question. Every glass was filled with deep brown liquid. Five bucks said it was outrageously sweet tea.

“Sorry. I’m afraid it’s dry as a bone here.” She leaned in close and waggled her eyebrows. “We’re all good Baptists. Except behind closed doors, you know.”

He knew. Where he came from, everyone was Greek Orthodox except behind closed doors. Different label, same hypocrisy. “Coke is fine.”

“I’ll have it right out for you, sir.”

He almost groaned. “You can stop with the sir nonsense. Come right back. Keep me company,” he said.

Keep the locals at bay. A convenient excuse, but a poor one. He liked VJ, and he’d have to leave soon enough. Was it terrible to record as much of her as possible through the camera in his head until then?

“I can’t. I’m working.”

“Doing what?” He waved at the dining room. “This place is practically empty.”

Her probing gaze roamed over his face, as if searching for something, and the pursuit was so affecting, he felt oddly compelled to give it to her, no matter what it was.

“Okay,” she said. “But only for a few minutes.”

She glided through the haphazard maze of tables and bent over her order pad, then handed it to the middle-aged woman in the kitchen. Pearl, if he had to guess.

The brutish brothers, clearly adopted, continued to shoot malevolent grimaces over their shoulders, but hadn’t left their stools again.

Only a couple of things were guaranteed to rile Kris’s temper—challenging his artistic vision and picking on someone weaker. Otherwise, he stayed out of it. Drama belonged on the screen, not in real life.

A slender young woman with a wholesome face whirled into the diner and flew to VJ’s side. Amused, he crossed his arms as they whispered furiously to each other while shooting him fascinated glances under their lashes. Benign gawking, especially by someone who intrigued him as much as VJ did, was sort of flattering. After a couple of minutes, the other woman flounced to the bar, her sidelong gaping at him so exaggerated she almost tripped over her sandals.

“Friend of yours?” he asked as VJ approached his table.

VJ was giving him a wide berth, something he normally appreciated, but not today and not with her. There’d been an easiness between them earlier, as if they’d been friends for a long time, before she got uptight about his connection to Kyla. Friends were hard to come by in Hollywood, especially for someone who cultivated a reputation for being driven and moody. He lost little sleep over it. Different story with VJ, who made the idea of being so disconnected unappealing.

“Yeah, practically since birth. That’s Pamela Sue. She’s only here to ogle you.”

He laughed. “I’m not used to such honesty. I like it. What does VJ stand for?” he asked and propped his chin on a palm, letting his gaze roam over her expressive face. Women were manipulative and scheming where he came from. This one was different.

“Victoria Jane. It’s too fancy for these parts, so folks mostly call me VJ.”

VJ fit her—it was short, sassy and unusual. “Most? But not all?”

“Perceptive, aren’t you? My mom didn’t. But she’s been gone now almost a year.”

Ouch. The pain flickering through her eyes drilled right through him, leaving a gaping hole. Before thinking it through, he reached out and gently enfolded her hand in his.

“I’m sorry,” he said. After the ill-fated exchange of harsh words with his father sixteen years ago, Kris had walked away from a guaranteed position at Demetrious Shipping, the Demetrious fortune and Greece entirely. His relationship with his mom had been one of the casualties, and phone calls weren’t the same. But he couldn’t imagine a world where even a call wasn’t possible. “That must’ve been tough. Must still be.”

“Are you trying to make me cry?” She swallowed hard.

Dishes clinked and clacked from the kitchen and the noise split the air.

“Pearl’s subtle way of telling me to get my butt to work.” VJ rolled wet, shiny eyes. “Honestly, she should pick up your check. This place hasn’t seen such a big crowd since Old Man Smith’s funeral.”

While he’d been distracted, locals had packed the place. Most of the tables were now full of nuclear families, worn-out men in crusty boots or acne-faced teenagers.

“So you’re saying I’m at least as popular as a dead man?” It shouldn’t have been funny, but the corners of his mouth twitched none the less.

Soberly, she pulled her hand from his and stood. Her natural friendliness had returned and then vanished. He missed it.

“Well, I have to work.” She eased away, her expression blank. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Demetrious. I wish you and Ms. Monroe all the happiness in the world with your upcoming marriage.”

He scowled. “Kyla and I aren’t engaged.”

Yet. It didn’t improve his mood to hear rumors of the impending engagement had already surfaced, courtesy of Kyla, no doubt.

Why was this still bothering him? He’d agreed to give Kyla a ring. The deal was done if he wanted to make
Visions of Black.
He entertained no romantic illusions about love or marriage. Marriage based on a business agreement had a better chance of succeeding than one based on anything else. Of course, he was never going to marry anyone, least of all Kyla, whom he hadn’t even seen in a couple of months, not since she’d called off their relationship in a fit of tears and theatrical moaning. At which point she’d likely jumped right back into bed with Guy Hansen.

“Oh. Well, then, have a nice life instead.” VJ smiled and bounced to the kitchen.

At least he’d been able to improve her mood.

* * *

Later that night, VJ grinned as she walked up the listing steps to the house, jumped the broken one and cracked the screen door silently.

Kris and Kyla Monroe weren’t engaged.

Oh, it made no difference in the grand scheme of things, but she couldn’t stop smiling regardless. He was compassionate, sinfully hot and a little more available than she’d assumed.

Was there
anything
wrong with him? If so, she didn’t want to know. For now, he was her fantasy, with no faults and no bad habits.

It was fun to imagine Kris returning for her someday, top down on the Ferrari and a handful of red roses. And it was slightly depressing since it would never happen in a million years. He was on his way to Dallas and that would be that.

She tiptoed into the hallway and froze when a board creaked. Dang it, she never missed that one.

“Girl, is that you?” Daddy’s slurred voice shot out from the living room.

She winced. Angry drunk tonight. What had happened this time to set him off?

Her stomach plummeted. The part. She’d forgotten all about the part for Gus’s truck, and it was still sitting in the cab of Daddy’s truck. Her head had been full of Kristian Demetrious, with no room for anything else.

She put some starch in her spine and walked into the living room. Her father slumped in the same armchair where he had taken residence earlier in the afternoon. His eyes were bloodshot, swollen.

“Lookee here.” Daddy took a swig of beer and backhanded his mouth with his knuckles. “Finally decided to prance your butt home, didja?”

He looked bad. They’d all dealt with Mama’s death in their own way, but Daddy wasn’t dealing with it at all, falling farther into a downward, drunken spiral every day.

“I’m sorry about the part, Daddy. I got to town late,” she hedged. “I had to go straight to work.”

“Gus needs his truck. You get over there and fix it now,” he commanded, then downed the rest of his beer and belched. He set the empty can on the closest table without looking.

It teetered on the edge, and then fell to the floor with a clank. Beer dribbled onto the hardwood floor, creating another mess to clean up.

“It’s late. Bobby Junior can fix it in the morning.” Along with everything else since he was running the garage in their father’s stead.

Guilt panged her breastbone. Bobby Junior had a wife and three kids he never saw. What else did she have to do? Lie in bed and dream about a Greek god who was speeding away toward a life that did not, and never would, include her?

Daddy bobbled the TV remote into his paw. “I told you to do it. Ungrateful hussy. Bring me another beer, would ya?”

Her head snapped up and anger swept the guilt aside. “Daddy, you’re drunk and you need to go to bed, so I’ll forgive you for calling me that.”

“Don’t you raise your voice to me, missy!” He weaved to his feet and shook the remote. “And don’t you pass judgment down your prissy little nose, either. I ain’t drunk. I’m hungry because you ran off and forgot about cooking me dinner. Your job is here.”

“Sorry, Daddy. I don’t mean to be disrespectful.” She bit her lip and pushed on. “But I’m moving to Dallas soon, like I’ve been telling you for months. You and the boys have to figure out how to do things for yourselves.”

Jenny Porter’s cousin was buying a condo and had offered to rent the extra bedroom to VJ, but it wasn’t built yet and wouldn’t be until September. Fall couldn’t get here fast enough.

Daddy shook his head. “The Good Lord put women on this earth to cook, clean and have a man’s babies. You can do that right here in Little Crooked Creek.”

“I’m not staying here to enable you to drink yourself into the grave.” Her dry eyes burned. “I’m tired. I’m sorry about Gus’s truck and for forgetting your dinner. But I’m done here.” She turned and took a step toward her room.

Daddy’s fingernails bit into her upper arm as he spun her and yanked until her face was inches from his. “Don’t you turn your back on me, girl.” Alcohol-laced breath gushed from his mouth and turned her stomach with its stench. “You’ll quit your job and forget about running off to live in that devil’s den.”

He emphasized each word with a shake that rattled her entire body. Tears sprang up as he squeezed the forming bruises. For the first time since her mother’s death, she was genuinely afraid of her father and what he might do. Mama had always been the referee. Her lone defender and supporter in a household of males. VJ didn’t have her mother’s patience or her saintly ability to overlook Daddy’s faults.

If she could escape to her room, she could grab some clothes and dash over to Pamela Sue’s house.

“Thought you were pretty smart hiding all that money under the bed in your unmentionables box,” he said.

It took her a second. “You were snooping in my room?”

She jerked her arm free as panic flitted up her back. Surely he hadn’t looked inside the tampon box. Her brothers wouldn’t have touched it with a ten-foot pole, and she’d been smugly certain it was the perfect hiding place.

“This is my house and so’s everything in it. Needed me a new truck. Tackle got it in El Paso today.” Her father smirked and nodded toward the rear of the house.

The room tilted as she looked out the back window. In the driveway of the detached garage sat a brand-new truck with paper plates.

“You stole my money? All of it?” Her lungs collapsed and breath whooshed out, strangling her.

“My house, so it’s my money.”

Her money was gone.

She could have opened an account at Sweetwater Bank where Aunt Mary worked after all. Then Daddy might have found out about the money but wouldn’t have been able to touch it. Hindsight.

What was she going to do? Most of the money had been Mama’s, slipped to VJ on the sly when her prognosis had turned bad. It would take at least a week to earn enough at Pearl’s to buy a bus ticket. Never mind eating or any other basic necessities. Like rent.