Hot Mess

by R. Linda

Groaning in frustration, I shoved open the French doors and approached Wren’s unit. She called it the pool house because it was beside the pool, but it was nothing more than a shoebox apartment filled with the most random crap I’d ever seen. The doll’s head cookie jar freaked me out with its one eye and hair falling out, not to mention the wine stoppers made from Barbie heads. The girl had a weird obsession with dolls.

  I opened the door and walked into her apartment, calling out her name. “Wren?”

  Her voice echoed down the hall as she squealed in surprise, and then something thudded on the floor, followed by a crash and groan. “Wren,” I called again.

  Another groan. And then she called out, “Help!”

  I walked down the hall toward the sound of her voice and paused in the doorway of what I could only assume was the second bedroom, set up to be her studio, before rushing over to her. She was lying on the floor on her back, completely covered in paint and possibly only in her underwear. It was hard to tell because it looked like a rainbow had been massacred in there. Paint tins were scattered around her, paint splattered the walls and floor, and a ladder had fallen on top of her.

  “What the fuck happened?” I grabbed the ladder and pulled it off her, carefully setting it to the side.

  “You,” she growled. “You happened, Tate.” She pushed herself up but slipped in the paint and collapsed again with a groan.

  “Me? What did I do?”

  “You scared me, and I fell off the ladder. Now help me up.”

  She was covered in paint, and I had expensive clothes on. I cringed. My shoes already had paint on the soles. I didn’t want to wreck my jeans too. They were my favorite pair.

  “Tate?” She lay there, a pained look on her face with her hand held in the air expectantly.

  I rolled my eyes and reached out to pull her up. She was slippery and sticky with paint and lost her balance. Falling into me, her body pressed against mine. Soft and warm. And paint-covered. My favorite jeans were ruined, but for some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to care right in that moment because my arms were around her and it felt...nice. Her cheek nuzzled against my chest and she breathed in deeply, letting out a sigh, and I quickly lost my train of thought.

  “Did you just sniff me?” I grasped her shoulders and pushed her back, suddenly aware of how inappropriately close we were standing. If Rachel had seen us, she’d have flipped her shit and caused a scene.

  She pressed her lips together and shoved me in the chest. I stumbled back, tripped over a paint can, spilling blue everywhere. My once white shoes looked like a packet of skittles had thrown up on them. Dammit.

  “I couldn’t help but sniff you. That stench you call aftershave is way too overpowering,” she said and frowned down at the mess on the floor. I chuckled because I wasn’t wearing any aftershave. What she was smelling and seemed to enjoy so much was. All. Me.

  “So, you gonna tell me what you were painting? And why you were up on the ladder?” I looked around the room and noticed the walls were bare. Plain white, not a drop of color to be seen, yet she was on the ladder with her paint tins.

  “You’re standing on it.” Wren huffed and bent over to pick up the scattered tins, her perfect ass on full display in her panties. I tilted my head, a little disappointed she wasn’t wearing a thong, and watched as she straightened all the spilled tins and sighed. “It’s ruined.” She collapsed on the floor in a puddle of paint.

  Cringing at the mess she just sat in, I took more notice of the large canvas she’d spread across the floor. When I first walked into the room it looked like a drop sheet to catch any mess, but now that I was paying more attention to it, I could see I was wrong. Colors swirled together, and splotches blended with strokes and... I shifted the ladder to the center of the room and climbed up the paint-covered rungs to get a bird’s eye view of her painting.

  “Holy shit.”

  “What? You hate it, don’t you? Think it sucks?” Wren grumbled.

  “No. It’s fucking incredible,” I said, completely in awe of the image I was staring at. A Horse. A black stallion running along the beach kicking up water with the sun setting behind it. And it was covered, ruined by spilled paint. “Is there any way to save it?”

  “No. It’ll go in the trash.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Whatever. Not like anyone would pay money for it or anything.”

  “Are you kidding? It’s amazing. What was the ladder for?”

  Wren shrugged. “I drop the paint from a height and see where the splotch lands, then use my brushes and hands to turn the drops of paint into an image. I was up there dropping blue paint to darken the water when I fell.”

  My chest clenched. I did that. I scared her so she fell and ruined a masterpiece. I looked her over, she was lucky she hadn’t broken anything. But was that blood? “Are you hurt?” I crouched down in front her and peeled the bottom of her yoga pants up.

  “What are you doing?” She screeched and ripped her leg out from my grasp.

  “Relax. I was just checking your leg. I think it’s bleeding.” I held up my hands defensively as though approaching a wild animal.

  “It’s fine,” she said, pushing herself up to her feet and wiping her chest with a rag she picked up off the floor. Her breasts pushed together as she used the cloth to wipe the paint from her hands before handing it to me.

  She asked something but I was distracted by her. “What?”

  Wide hips.

  Smooth, soft stomach.

  And breasts.

  Breasts that were more than a handful. Full. Round. Larger than Rachel’s plastic-filled ones. I knew without a shadow of a doubt they were all real too.

  Growing increasingly aware that I was staring like a pervert at my landlord after almost causing her a serious injury, I cleared my throat. “Did you say something?”

  She rolled her eyes, snatched the rag from my hand and walked out of the room toward her bedroom, mumbling to herself quietly.

  She was fucking sexy.

  “I asked what you were doing here, Tate,” Wren called from the open door of her room while I hovered in the hall like a creep.

  “I tried to get into the garage but it’s locked.” I raised my voice so she’d hear over the...running water? Jesus, she was having a shower. And the door was open.

  I rubbed a hand through my hair and walked down the hall back to the living room. I mean, who did that? Showered with the door open while someone was in their apartment.

  Me.

  I would.

  But that’s because I posed for photos in my underwear, with my hand on my junk and stripped naked in front of countless people regularly backstage. So showering wasn’t a stretch.

  “I know.” Her voice echoed through the small house as she shut off the water.

  I frowned. She knew I couldn’t get into her garage. I stalked down the hall toward her bedroom. “And what, you just decided to not let me have the code even though I pay fuckloads of money?” I came to a stop in her doorway.

  She turned and faced me in nothing but a towel, hands on her hips and a scowl on her face. “You rented the house. Not the garage. Read the lease.”

  “What?” I took a step closer but stopped when she arched an eyebrow at me. I was in her room. I’d crossed a line and even I could admit that was wrong. I should have left. Walked away. But my feet were frozen to the spot. My eyes trained on the drops of water rolling over her cleavage and getting soaked up by the fluffy white towel.

  “The lease, Tate. You know, the legally binding contract that stipulates the conditions upon which I let you live in my house.”

  “Lease.”

  “Holy moly. I’d have thought a guy like you would have read the lease and memorized it before signing it.” She spun around and walked into her closet.

  “A guy like me?” I leaned against the wall and waited for her to reappear. She didn’t, but her towel did. I swallowed. My mouth so dry.

  “Yeah, you.” She poked her head
out of the door, hiding her body. “Someone so determined to have every single person who steps foot on the premises sign an NDA. I’d have thought you’d know to read before you sign.”

  “Shit,” I cursed and stormed out of the room to the sound of Wren giggling in the closet.

  Chapter Six

  WREN

  I opened the French doors and walked into the house. If it was good enough for Tate to let himself into my house, I could do the same.

  “Tate?” I called. My voice echoed through the large space and received no response. Wondering where he could be, I went in search of him, calling his name the entire time so he’d hear me and not fall off a ladder. My butt still ached from that, and I’d no doubt have a massive bruise there by morning.

  Where could he be?

  And then it hit me. The garage. No. Surely, he couldn’t be trying to get into the garage after I’d told him it wasn’t on the lease. Besides, there was a smaller garage at the other end of the driveway that he could use. I had even given him the key for that one.

  The other one? No!

  That was mine.

  That was my dad’s. His car collection.

  My heart sank, and I ran back through the house and outside to find Tate still covered in paint—serves him right—trying to break into the garage.

  “What are you doing?” I huffed as I screeched to a stop, and Tate turned to face me with an amused expression.

  “Trying to get into the god damn garage, Wren. I need to put my car in there.” He rolled his eyes.

  “Hasn’t bothered you before,” I said, blowing a strand of hair out of my face.

  “That car is Rachel’s. I couldn’t give a shit about it. Do you really think I’d drive a fucking convertible?” he asked, folding his arms over his chest so his shirt strained across his firm biceps.

  I angled my head and assessed. Yes. I absolutely thought he’d drive a convertible. He had that air about him. Obnoxious. Pretentious. As though he was better than everyone. Newsflash: He wasn’t. Not even his looks could make up for his personality. “Thought you might have had dice hanging from your mirror, though.”

  Tate tensed.

  “That’s not for you.” I pointed over my shoulder to the other one. “You can use that one.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Yes, I’m serious.” Tate stood there with his arms crossed and watched me curiously as though trying to see if I was bluffing or not. I wasn’t.

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s my garage.”

  “Your car is parked in the fucking driveway. You don’t even use it.”

  “This isn’t up for discussion, Tate. That garage is off limits.”

  “Give me one good reason why, and I’ll leave it alone.” He stepped forward and looked down at me. His jaw tense. “I am paying a god damn fortune for this place and want a reason why I can’t use the garage.”

  Sighing in defeat and knowing he wouldn’t give it a rest until I showed him, I shoved him out of my way and crossed over to the pin pad beside the garage door. I typed in my birthday—the code Dad used for everything—and waited for the mechanical whir of the roller doors as they lifted slowly, then I turned and walked away.

  “Stop,” Tate called out.

  I stopped but refused to turn around. I couldn’t look in the garage. I hadn’t been in there since they died. It hurt too much. Those cars were Dad’s most prized possessions. Aside from me and my mother, there was nothing he cherished more.

  “This...” Tate stopped. “What? Umm. Wow.” He was at a loss for words.

  Taking a deep shaky breath, I twisted my fingers together and willed the tears away. My throat was aching, and my eyes stung from fighting the grief that was beginning to take hold inside me. I didn’t let myself cry too often, and I certainly wasn’t going to now. Not in front of Tate. “They’re my dad’s,” I said softly, my voice barely a whisper. I wasn’t sure Tate could even hear me.

  “They are fucking incredible, Wren. I mean, these are rare as...” He paused again and let out a deep breath.

  I knew they were rare. Dad spent half his adult life collecting rare vintage cars.

  “Fuck. Is that what I think it is?” His voice took on an awed tone. Bewilderment. Surprise.

  I was sure he’d spotted the Porsche 550 Spyder in the far corner of the garage, in a locked cage, separated from everything. My dad was superstitious and wasn’t willing to take a chance the car really was cursed.

  “Yes.” I nodded. It was the only car Nelson wouldn’t touch. The only car I wouldn’t let him near. I didn’t believe it was cursed, but my dad did, and so did Nelson, apparently. The clear plastic cover kept it clean, but there was no way the engine would start now.

  “Holy fucking shit. Do you know what this is?” Tate asked.

  “Of course, I do. I’m not stupid.”

  “I thought it was lost forever. It disappeared without a trace years ago.”

  “I know.”

  “How? How is it here?”

  I wanted to go back to my house and wait for my pizza delivery. I wanted to eat my weight in pizza, not talk about my dad’s car collection or the fact he spent far too much money and resources hunting down James Dean’s missing car.

  “Wren? How the hell do you have Little Bastard in your garage?”

  I bit my lip and closed my eyes. “My dad was a car collector. He found it. Collected it. Stored it in the garage.”

  “I can’t believe it. This is incredible.”

  I still didn’t turn to face him when I spoke again, “Yeah. Shut the door when you’re done ogling.” And with that, I walked away.

  NICO KNOCKED ON MY door right on time. I was starving. I smiled at him from my position on the floor and waved him in. The scent of cheese and oregano filled the room and had my mouth watering. I pushed my laptop aside and stood up to greet him. The man of my dreams. He was barely a man. Only just turned eighteen, but he brought my pizza, and if there was one way to make me happy after the terrible afternoon I’d had, it was through food.

  And money.

  Not a lot of money. I wasn’t a spoiled brat, but just enough for me to survive and keep up my twice-weekly rendezvous with Nico and pizza, would make me the happiest girl alive.

  But job hunting was hard work and so far, it hadn’t been paying off. If I could just find something to keep me going. Something to get a little cashflow and maybe some savings, then I could start my own business. A gallery. But with my luck, I’d be waiting until I was twenty-five for my inheritance before that happened.

  “You look bothered,” Nico said and leaned against my counter. He was a sweet kid.

  “I’m annoyed. No one is returning my calls. And I just want a job. I’d do just about anything right now.” I pouted and Nico slid the pizza box my way. Why couldn’t he be a few years older? He understood me. My needs. My wants.

  “Want me to speak to Joe?” He shrugged as if it were no big deal, but it was. It was a huge deal. He got me.

  And I may have squealed. My eyes widened and my mouth dropped open. “You think he has a job going?” I rubbed my hands together gleefully.

  “For his number one customer I think he’d find something.”

  “That would be amazing.” I threw myself at Nico and wrapped my arms around his neck. I wasn’t above working in a pizza restaurant, hell, even delivering pizzas would be better than nothing. “Thank you.”

  The sound of a throat clearing, followed by the deep baritone rumble of Tate, interrupted my happy moment and dampened my excitement immediately. “Am I interrupting something?”

  I released Nico and stepping back, I turned to face Tate with my arms crossed over my chest. I was still annoyed with him over the garage incident earlier. I knew it wasn’t his fault, but it still didn’t stop me from blaming him. I hadn’t opened that garage since their death, and the fact he wouldn’t take no for an answer annoyed me so much that right then I didn’t want to see his stupid, sexy face.


  “What do you want, Tate?”

  He smirked and produced a document from behind his back. “This needs to be signed.”

  He placed the paper on the counter and tapped it with one finger. “A.S.A.P.” Then he strutted his annoyingly perfect behind out of my house.

  “He’s a real charmer, isn’t he?” Nico scoffed once Tate was gone.

  “He’s a giant pain in the neck. And if I didn’t need his rent money so bad, I would have kicked him and the wench out.”

  “The wench?”

  “Rachel. His girlfriend.”

  “Oh yeah.” Nico sighed with a dreamy smile on his face. “She’s pretty hot.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Think she’s home?”

  “Down boy. She parties all the time. It’s Friday night, there’s not a chance she’ll be home.” Why were we even talking about them? My pizza was getting cold and we were in the middle of getting me a job.

  “And Tate stays home? Weird. If my girlfriend looked like Rachel, there would be no way I’d let her out of my sight.”

  I rolled my eyes, grabbing a slice and looked at the document Tate left, knowing exactly what it was. I didn’t want to discuss his relationship with Rachel any longer, and I was pretty sure he was confident enough in himself that he was sure Rachel wouldn’t dare stray.

  Who would? Honestly. He was so handsome it was almost painful to look at him sometimes. Though his personality, which I was beginning to see more of, left a lot to be desired. His and Rachel’s relationship was none of my business, and I knew if Nico kept pushing me then I’d say something I shouldn’t, and Tate would likely sue my perky butt for breaking the NDA that he decided to get me to sign the day after Eva signed hers.

  Can you say trust issues?

  Like I’d blab to the media that he was here. The last thing I wanted was weirdos hiding in the hills with long-range camera lenses. There was no way they were getting in the gate, but I’d known from experience that it wouldn’t stop them getting the pictures that would rake in the big bucks for them.

  But Tate had me curious, that was for certain. He was hiding something. He had to be. Something big, and it was the reason he didn’t want anyone to know he was here. His whole relationship with Rachel was weird too. In the few weeks they had lived here, she spent more time out partying with her girlfriends and throwing parties on the weekends than she did with Tate. The gossip columns were on high alert, there was speculation that Tate and Rachel had split. That he was on drugs and she was cheating on him with his best mate. As far as I could tell that was all it was. Gossip. Tate didn’t react to the reports about him and never seemed too concerned about any of it.