NC-17

by Larissa Reinhart

  Still. Awkward.

  “You look kind of funny. Still have feelings for him?” asked Tiffany. “Because I thought you said nothing was doing while y’all were mentoring or whatever.”

  “Nothing is doing. You are correct.”

  “What about that cop?”

  “Nothing is doing there, either. Ian Mowry is a friend who helps me on cases.”

  While Rhonda brushed out my hair, she studied my face. “Don’t go back to Oliver. Even if you’re lonely. That man is bad news.”

  “No worries there. He may try, but he will not succeed.”

  She jerked the brush from my hair and whirled the chair around. “What’d you mean, ‘he may try?’ What happened?”

  Tiffany grabbed the chair and spun it to face her. “Did he put the moves on you?”

  “No moves. He’s just being nice. Apologetic. Helpful. That sort of thing.”

  Tiffany snorted.

  “Help you with what?” said Rhonda.

  “Help me with…” Wait. There was an accusatory ring in the air again. I was so not in the mood for “keeping it real.” No more than I had been with Ian the night before. “My community service.”

  “Uh huh,” said Rhonda with all the sarcasm she could muster. She returned to brushing.

  “What’s going on with bank bomber’s mother? Did she pay you?” Tiffany cracked her knuckles. “Or are you going to let me at her?”

  “She paid with a check. And wrote “help us” in the memo.” I sipped my coffee. “When I went back to ask what she meant, there was an armed man at her house. And I can’t get a hold of her. Who knows what’s going on there?”

  “What?” Rhonda’s brush hung in mid-air.

  “ATF thinks Roger was working with someone. I guess the armed man was his partner. Anyway, not my problem.” I settled my coffee on the mirrored station stand. “How about a trim and blow out? Do you do Olaplex? And my nails…we better go with a nude, considering the volunteer work I’ve been doing. Maybe OPI’s ‘Taupe-less Beach’ or ‘Feeling Frisco?’”

  Rhonda set down the brush. “Not your problem? Did you just say a woman who personally asked you for help is not your problem?”

  “What the hell is Olaplex?” said Tiffany. “And I think ‘Berlin There Done That’ is more appropriate considering who you’re seeing this morning.”

  I averted my eyes and snatched the last donut from the Dixie Kreme bag. Sour cream.

  Touché donuts.

  “Put down that donut, girlfriend,” said Rhonda. “Roger Price’s momma needs you. She called your agency to deal with her crazy ass son. She wrote ‘help us’ on a check she gave to you. Obviously, this is your problem.”

  “It is the ATF’s problem. It stopped being my problem when Roger Price blew up my boss. No matter what she wrote on that check.”

  “I don’t think so.” Rhonda crossed her arms. “You need to talk to Roger.”

  “I am hells-to-the-no not talking to Roger.” I ripped a chunk off the donut with my teeth. And almost choked swallowing it.

  “Rhonda surprisingly has a good point,” said Tiffany. “Roger might know something that could help his mom.”

  “He blew up Nash—I mean the bank,” I said. “When I think about Roger, I forget to breathe. I can’t do it.”

  “You’re breathing just fine now.” Tiffany raised her brows. “Listen, Roger is not going to tell the cops anything because his lawyer told him to keep his trap shut. But Roger might tell you something. It’s worth a shot.”

  I shook my head. “You just don’t get it.”

  “I thought you were all about becoming a new, stronger person,” said Rhonda. “You’re saying no because you’re afraid of Roger Price?”

  I hiked my chin higher. “I have to meet Oliver soon. Can we get started?”

  “It is too early in the morning for this, Rhon,” said Tiffany. “Let me do her nails, get paid, and go home to nap before I really have to work.”

  Their disapproval hung in the air like a misting of Aquanet.

  “I already have an almost-dead boss on my conscience. And a missing Bigfoot YouTube star to find. My boss’s business to save. A ferocious probation officer to pacify. And a wedding to keep in place. At least until I get the rest of this stuff done. Stop making me feel bad. Do you see the bags under my eyes? The state of my skin?”

  Rhonda stuck a hand on her hip. “Maizie, I tell it like it is. You do your thing. But this is no time for fabulous hair when Roger’s momma needs you.”

  “She has a thing about mommas,” said Tiffany. “Me, I don’t trust cops. I agree with Rhonda. You want something done, you do it yourself.”

  “I thought we were friends.” I felt a pout appearing and forced my face to neutral.

  “Friends don’t let friends off the hook,” said Rhonda. “Talk to Roger before it’s too late.”

  “You know,” I said. “I don’t think I have time for hair and makeup.”

  “Who said anything about makeup?” said Tiffany. “And you better have time after getting us here this early.”

  “May I remind you, I brought donuts,” I spoke stiffly, hoping my TV crew slip-up wasn’t Freudian. I thought real-life friendships would be easier. Not full of the blame-game. I had Vicki and Giulio for that.

  “I thought the donuts made up for you insisting on an appointment four hours before we open. Now you’re sounding all uppity.” Tiffany cocked her hip and settled her hand on it. “You better have brought cash, because we know your credit is no good.”

  “If that’s how you feel.” I fought the flush that clashed with my forehead bruise.

  “That’s what we know,” said Tiffany. “Remember, you’re broke? You’re no longer Maizie Albright. You’re just Maizie Albright, a broke girl on probation who needs a real job. And who needs to get her shit together.”

  I gasped like I’d been punched in the stomach.

  “Tiff, have more coffee,” said Rhonda quickly. “You are so testy when you’re not decently caffeinated.”

  I yanked the cape off, fished out a twenty and tossed it on the counter. “I have a long bicycle ride in front of me. I’m sorry I wasted your time. But I can’t do this. Not this week.”

  “If that’s how you feel.” Tiffany grabbed her coffee and strode to the back door.

  “Y’all, don’t do this,” said Rhonda.

  * * *

  I biked home, stopping first at SaveMo for the only hair supplies I could afford. Then attempted to color my hair and paint nails. With the help of Remi. Who was not helpful at all. Neither were the five Jack Russells who decided to join us in the bathroom. One of which now had an orange streak down his back.

  “That’s alright,” said Remi. “He’s the only one who didn’t get caught in my Bigfoot traps. The other dogs will feel better about themselves since he looks so silly.”

  With that logic, I felt more than silly. I’d been caught in Remi’s traps. I was also orange. And my face was brown. I’d used too much self-tanner trying to cover the scraped bruise.

  Plus I thought I might have broken up with my only friends. And I wasn’t sure why.

  At the office, Lamar stared a few seconds too long. It took a painful amount of thumb pinching to not burst into tears.

  Lamar checked my reaction and lightened his voice. “Thank you for the flyers. They’re very…interesting. I’m sure we’ll get a lot of attention with these.”

  “Do you think I look skanky?” I chewed my lip.

  Lamar studied me. “I would not use the word skanky. It’ll grow out, won’t it?”

  I closed my eyes and swallowed. “I meant the flyers.”

  “Oh. Well. They’re very…interesting.”

  He’d already said interesting.

  “I’ll try again later. I have to get to Wellspring. When I return, I’ll go through all the files I stole from Jolene. I’m sure we’ll have new clients rolling in by this afternoon. That’s great, right?”

  “Sure, hon.’” Lamar’s dou
bt rang with less patience than previously. He held up a finger and pulled his phone from his pocket.

  I circled around him to the desk and started a new to-do list. I wrote “watch videos with Oliver” at the top. Followed by “make new flyers.” “Research Jolene’s clients.” “Tell Giulio to suck it up for another week.” And “find new salon” at the bottom. In small letters. Then wrote “for emergency purposes” next to it.

  Not that I was fooling anyone but myself. Rhonda and Tiffany had always been real with me. I could take all the “stop acting Hollywood, you don’t have the cash to back it up” statements. But combined with “quit Nash Security Solutions and get a real job?” Not with Nash in the hospital. And “drop the teens” when I was their Obi Wan? And this business about talking to Roger Price? The man ruined my life more than Oliver Fraser ever did. At least Oliver never almost-killed someone I (maybe) loved. It was so not fair of the girls. Even if I had asked them to come in four hours early for nothing.

  Some friends.

  “Yes, it is,” said Lamar to the caller. “What’s the news?”

  I looked up from my list and mouthed, “hospital?”

  Lamar nodded. “That’s real good….Okay….How long?” He smiled and raised his brows at me.

  I dropped the pen and felt tingles in my toes. The sensation shot an electric current up my feet, through my limbs and trunk. My head buzzed. My face contorted. I patted my cheeks and realized I was smiling. Hard enough to hurt.

  Bobbing on the balls of my feet, I waited for Lamar to finish his phone call. “Mr. Nash’s awake? Is he okay? What did they say? He’s not going to die? He’s not going to die. He’s awake and I’m leaving.” I rammed my hip against the desk, took a quarter turn, and stumbled out of the office.

  He was alive. Nash was alive, and I didn’t care if I had to spoon feed him for the rest of his life. He was alive and awake and that was all that mattered.

  Wait, spoon feed what?

  Whatever. He was awake.

  “Hang on,” called Lamar. “They’re keeping him to run tests. And he has a visitor.”

  “I don’t care.”

  Twenty-Eight

  #WhileYouWereSleepingWithTheEnemy #JoleneDontTakeMyMan

  The nurses and I exchanged grins as I raced past their station to Nash’s room. Reaching his door, I forced myself to stop, take a breath (without hyperventilating), and do a mirror check. I’d cried off my mascara and eaten off my lip gloss. And I still had the coloring of a Halloween decoration.

  But I’d burned off ten million calories biking to the hospital along the county highway, so my glow was healthy.

  I made a quick hallway touchup and took another ujjayi cleansing breath. When I didn’t pass out, I grasped the doorknob and pushed through.

  The bed back was raised, allowing Nash to sit up. His right arm was still tubed and monitors still blinked, but the atmosphere had changed completely. His body no longer looked shrunken, the blue gown stretched taut over his large frame. The stubble had grown into a light beard, hiding the little scar on his chin, giving him a swarthy ne’er do well vibe.

  His head turned slowly. Nash’s gaze moved to roam over me, then stopped. Paul Newman baby blues met my bloodshot, mascara-smeared sea glass greens. His lips pursed, then opened, and quickly shut. He glanced at the person sitting on his bed.

  Holding his hands.

  OMG.

  I had so fixated on Nash awake I had totally missed Jolene. I felt the blood drain from my face, then rush back to lick my cheeks. Props to Jolene. Her blue sheath dress was totally fetch. Hugged her lithe body and set off the sheen to her auburn locks. It looked better than the red While You Were Shifting Dolce & Gabbana I had envisioned.

  “Maizie? What are you doing here?” Jolene stopped, then sniggered. “What happened to your hair? And your face?”

  My fingers automatically stretched to comb my orange, cornhusk-dry flyaways. Realizing it was a lost cause, my hands dropped.

  Kind of like my heart.

  And my self-esteem.

  “Um..Undercover…work,” I stuttered.

  Shizzles, another lie.

  Nash’s head jerked. “Lamar?” he croaked.

  “Lamar’s at the office now…He, uh…later? We made some flyers? And um…” I felt unsure of safe conversational topics again. Patted my hair. Felt my eyes grow hot. Pinched my thumb and took a breath. And started to hyperventilate.

  Holy shizzles. What in the hellsballs was wrong with me?

  My breath intake accelerated. Spots danced around the room. I doubled over, smacking my head on my knee. Stifled a groan. And focused on the fat tears plopping onto my mud-stained Golden Goose sneakers while I counted seconds between breaths.

  “Miss Albright?” said Nash.

  “Don’t get up, Wyatt,” said Jolene. “It’s too soon. You’re supposed to rest.”

  “No,” I gasped. “’S’kay.”

  Doubled over, I shuffled backward. Bumped into the doorframe and sidled into the hallway. Smacked into a cart and sent it spinning. Sending the candy striper running after it.

  Giving me time to make my escape before I totally lost it.

  * * *

  The pain in my chest ached so acutely, I almost made a right turn into the ER on my skedaddle to the parking lot. But knowing my weakness and recognizing the ensuing agony, I ignored the pain radiating from my core to my extremities. My head pounded with each step I took.

  Which it deserved since my head could’ve stopped me from this pain in the first place.

  Never in my life had I felt so low. Even after my arrest, when I was a running joke on TMZ and E! News Daily. Not only was my heart shattered, but I also had no money. No home of my own. No car nor even a dirt bike. No friends to comfort me. My family support was dysfunctional at best — except for Remi and there was only so much you can get from a six-year-old intent on capturing mythological creatures — and perhaps soon, I’d have no job.

  I couldn’t even make a flyer to save my boss’s business because I was so fixated on making him fall in love with me. While he was unconscious.

  Even my character in While You Were Shifting hadn’t been that stupid. And she’d been stupid enough to fall in love with a were-dolphin in a coma.

  What kind of fool had I become? I’d always had issues with falling for the wrong men. My therapists had a lot of explanations for this. Office romance syndrome. Absent father syndrome. Mommy Dearest syndrome. (Joke. Sort of.)

  And I had immediately gone and done it again. Fallen in love with Nash. And imagined he reciprocated.

  Sure, there’d been a few times where we’d been in tight situations and relieved the stress with a little face mashing. But we hadn’t rounded any real bases. To a guy that didn’t mean anything. And according to the proclamations of my celebrity gal pals and Cosmo, it shouldn’t mean anything to me either.

  But it did.

  Hells. Nash had clearly said he wasn’t interested in dating while he mentored me. How did I take that as a future relationship together?

  Why did I constantly paint my life vision in pink rainbows?

  Rainbows weren’t even pink.

  The humiliation grew as I sped from the hospital toward Black Pine Mountain. I swallowed hard and concentrated on not dying on the winding road. Told myself I deserved the agony of pumping uphill on a six-speed. Gasping and sweating, I trudged into the Center, past reception, and down the über modern hall leading to Oliver’s office.

  The door swung wide at my knock. “Good morning,” Oliver exclaimed.

  Startled, his arms dropped from the reach to hug. Probably at the sight of my face. Meaning my expression. But possibly from the brown tree rash and demented hair color.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Fine.” Calling on Julia Pinkerton’s unswerving sassiness, I tilted my chin up. “What could be wrong? Certainly not my love life.”

  “Your love—Giulio said you weren’t dating anyone.”

  “Which is why ther
e’s nothing wrong there. If I were dating someone, I’m sure it would be very wrong indeed.” I stopped, troubled at the Downton Abbey lilt I’d adopted. “Anyway, I’m here to look at the surveillance tapes. And get a tour of your unoccupied buildings and fenced vegetable garden.”

  “Unoccupied buildings?” Oliver shrugged. “I’ll do my best. I’m really glad to see you, Maizie. Do you want to grab a cup of coffee before we start?”

  Yes, I did. But I wouldn’t bow to temptations from beautiful men with gorgeous physiques any longer.

  Although I could really use another shot of caffeine. “Only if it’s takeout.”

  Twenty-Nine

  #DowntonInTheDumps #ShineMoOnMe

  Oliver ushered me into security, a first-floor room down the hall from his office. A bank of monitors lit one wall. Beneath it, a long workstation housed computers, a two-way radio system, and other apparatus. I noted the locked boxes behind me. Keys. Emergency equipment. And an unmarked cabinet that looked suspiciously like a gun safe.

  Por qué-why guns at a health spa?

  But more importantly, the room was empty. Except for me and Oliver.

  “Where is your staff?” I asked. “Shouldn’t someone be in here? Supervising? Us?”

  He rolled out a chair and sat in the one next to it. “We have CCTV cameras everywhere on property. All staff has an app on our phones that can access the monitors. Having security visible instead of cooped up in here, helps to deter any unwanted visitors. You can never be too careful.”

  That’s how the kids and I were spotted outside the fence.

  Oh, shiz. Dr. Trident could have been watching me half-ass my volunteer work for him on that flippin’ phone he always had out. And here, I thought the therapist was just addicted to social media.

  I’d curse the technology, but as an industry insider, I couldn’t help but admire the advancement in security solutions.