I couldn’t bring myself to smile back. “You have no idea.”
“Look, I can call a tow truck for you, but we need to get your car out of traffic.”
As he said this, a woman walked up and stood next to him. Tall with platinum blond spiral curls and ice blue eyes, she wore a black A-line mini skirt with a peach silk sleeveless shirt that had thin black piping. I wished I could see her shoes. Priorities. But I wasn’t going to fully open the door to see them. I’d take my view from the driver’s side window.
“Hugo, I have places to be. Everyone else is just going around.” She looked at me and smiled.
I smiled back, even though I wanted to tell her to fuck off.
His look shut her up. “Take the car. I’ll call Timmy and have him come and get me. I’m not going to leave her stranded.”
“Suit yourself.” She turned on her heel without giving me a second glance and strode away.
“Sorry about her, she’s a little…never mind.”
I heard an engine rev, and then a silver Bentley SUV pulled around the passenger side. I may not know much about how cars work, but I know cars. That was a Bentley Bentayga. When you dress some of the wealthiest women in Hollywood and Southern California, you learn about these things.
“But that was your ride,” I said.
He looked up from texting on his phone. “No, that was her ride. It’s my car,” he said. Then he looked at his watch. A freaking Devon Tread 1G watch, I might add. “My driver should be here in a few minutes. Let’s see what we can do to get you out of the intersection.”
When I looked at him closer, I realized, he may have been unkempt, but he certainly wasn’t dirty. Maybe he belonged to a cult, or ran one. I could be his next recruit. I’d have to keep from looking him in the eyes, because I don’t like Kool-Aid.
“You mean like push my car?” Did I mention my idea of exercise was lifting piles of clothes and putting them on racks?
“I’ll push. You turn your key like you’re going to start the car, but not far enough to start, then put it in neutral. I’ll try to block traffic, so we can get you over to the shoulder.”
I did as I was told, then waited for him to tell me when to turn my wheel.
He walked out in front of my car, looked around, then held up his hands like a traffic cop and everyone stopped. They probably thought he had a bomb. He looked bat-shit crazy with his beard, graphic T-shirt, and plaid board shorts. But it was the camouflage Crocs that took his outfit over the top.
He ran back to my car and said, “Neutral, put it in neutral,” as he went to the back and pushed.
I felt guilty that no one even tried to help us. He pushed my car over to the right, across three lanes of traffic. Once I’d maneuvered up near the shoulder of the road, I put my car in park. As soon as the traffic cleared, I opened the door to get out of my car when I remembered another shitty part of my last few days. Or pissy might be more precise.
Somewhere around the border of Arizona and New Mexico, I got a UTI. I cursed myself for not getting up to pee after the last time Miles and I had sex, less than twenty-four hours before I found him pounding Marla. Ugh! Having a urinary tract infection is bad enough when you have time to go to the doctor and get the pills to take care of it, but when you have to stop at Walmart to get the over-the-counter stuff, just to get you through, it’s a driving nightmare.
Along with sleeping in my car, I’d been peeing carrot juice and wearing Depends pads. Any woman who has ever had a UTI understands. I couldn’t exactly drive the ten thousand miles from L.A. to Texas and stop every five minutes to find a bathroom, or pee on the side of the road. I bought the medication, which didn’t work worth a crap, and a package of Depends pads, and pretty much peed in my pants until the medication took effect enough to let me drive without the constant urge to pee. That was about three hours earlier, and I hadn’t stopped because I was so close to home.
Screw it, even in dirty yoga pants and a Depends pad that could likely be seen through the tight fabric, I still couldn’t look as bad as the Duck Dynasty guy. I lifted my arm to smell my pits. Gag! How had I not smelled that earlier? I reeked, and I didn’t have time to grab my deodorant from my handbag and sneak some on without being noticed. Not that it would’ve helped at that point. It was at least seventy-five degrees, but I grabbed my oversized sweater from the back seat and pulled it over my head. The added bonus, other than hopefully covering my ripe odor, it covered my ass, too.
I adjusted the sweater as I got out of my car and walked to the sidewalk. Duck Man stood a few feet away, talking on his phone. I didn’t want to interrupt, so I kept my distance. This also kept him from getting too close a look at me, or smell me. I’m a freaking personal stylist, and I couldn’t have looked worse. Not a good first impression, no matter if I was meeting a homeless guy. The thing was, he smelled like a very expensive cologne, and that watch cost around $30,000. I couldn’t quite put a name on the fragrance, but I’d smelled it before. It didn’t add up.
When he disconnected from his call, he said, “Sorry, that was my driver. He’s caught in traffic. He’ll be late.”
His driver, right. But then, he’d said that Bentley belonged to him. Who was this guy?
Standing on the side of the road with a complete stranger, who for all I knew was the Dallas Strangler, everything I owned in my car that had likely taken its last breath, wearing a Depends, I started to shake.
“May I use your phone?” I had to call my parents or my brother. Someone had to come and get me. And my stupid car.
He looked at me, hesitated, then handed me the phone. A new iPhone…wait…had this version even hit the market yet?
I called my dad.
Voice mail.
I called my brother.
Voice mail.
Now the tears flowed. It was all too much.
Through the blubbering, I said, “I need to call for a tow truck, but I haven't lived here in almost eight years, so I have no idea who to call.” I gripped his phone in my hand.
Caveman pried it from my fingers and pushed one button. “Bobby, get me a tow truck at State and Main. And find out what’s taking Timmy so damn long.” A pause. “He can’t miss us. We’re standing outside the strip mall by CVS Pharmacy. It’s a white Jetta, looks like the young lady lives in it.”
That’s when the reality of the situation kicked in. I looked at my car from his angle. I looked like a hoarder. A bit of a giggle slipped in between my tears. A hoarder or a homeless person. Judging a book by its cover. Hadn’t I just done the same? I guess homeless fit me perfectly at that moment. Homeless and jobless.
It all came out in a rush. “I have been living in it for the last three days. I’m moving back here from California. I was afraid if I got a hotel, someone would break in and steal my things. And since this is everything I have in the world at the moment, I wasn't willing to let any of it go.” Why was I telling this hairy stranger about my last few days?
“Moved in a hurry?” Again, I saw his perfect teeth.
I sobbed. “I walked in on my boyfriend having sex with my boss. I’d just moved in with him a couple of months ago, and I really thought he was the one. We had so much in common. Apparently, more than I knew. I went back to the office to pick up accessories I’d forgotten for a client, and there they were, going at it on my boss’s desk. The sad thing is, I was in love with him and thought he was in love with me. And now my boss is gonna smear my name all over LA because I up and left.”
He said, “Oh, shit.”
Blurry through my tears, I couldn’t see his face, but I’ll bet he was thinking, Where’s my driver, so I can get away from this crazy chick.
I couldn’t stop myself. I kept blubbering. It was the first I’d told anyone. “I turned and walked out without getting what I needed. I went straight to his place and packed up all my belongings as fast as I could, then got in my car…” I stopped to catch my breath.
“Did you get out of there before he got home?” he asked.
“Yeah. He should have known I’d go there to grab my stuff and leave his cheating ass, but he didn’t exactly rush home to catch me. I could’ve taken the time to trash the place if I’d wanted. But that’s not me. I wanted to be that person, but I couldn’t. And for the last three days, I’ve mulled over how I could have done it differently.”
I took a deep breath.
He said nothing.
“As I was driving away from the apartment I got a text from my boss. She wanted to know why I hadn’t shown up to the client’s house for the trunk show.”
“Bitch,” he said.
“Right?” It felt good to hear someone else say it.
“So, you never heard from him. No apology. Nothing?”
“My voice mail is full and he texted me at least a dozen times, begging me to call him, so maybe. But call him? For what? So he could explain?”
He laughed.
“It’s not funny.”
“It sort of is. I mean, what the hell was he going to say? ‘It’s not what you saw. I wasn’t sticking my dick in her.’”
“He broke my heart.”
He stopped laughing. Very seriously, he said, “They don’t really break.”
What the hell was wrong with me? This poor guy. He’d been nice enough to help me when no one else would, and I’d nearly cried on his shoulder. I may as well tell him I was wearing a diaper. No, I wasn't going that far. And what did I expect him to say? “I guess. But it’s not fair. And it hurts enough to be broken.”
“Life isn’t fair.”
I wasn’t so sure I liked this guy. Nice enough to stop and help, but he didn’t seem to have real feelings. Maybe he lacked empathy. Maybe he’d never had a broken heart? He probably didn’t make it into civilized society much, looking like he preferred being off the grid. Not my problem anyway, other than to thank him and be grateful that he had enough empathy to stop and help me.
I wiped my tears with the hem of my sweater and I put my hand out. “I don't believe I’ve thanked you yet. Thank you so much for stopping to help. I appreciate it.”
He shook my hand. A hearty shake with the right amount of grip. The hand of a man who didn't work physical labor for a living. If that was his Bentley, point made. “Any gentleman would have done the same. We’re just lacking those in our society today, it seems. I’m Hugo Popovits, by the way.”
And now I knew why the platinum blond chick looked so chic, Stella Popovits. The Popovits twins. Popo Oil Industries. I did my best to hide my fan girl moment. Stella oozed style supreme.
“I’m Maisy Tucker. I used to be a personal stylist to the stars, now I’m an unemployed girl living with her parents in Dallas. I mean, on my way right now to their house…” Oh my God, what did I just say? He probably didn’t even want my name, much less my life story again. After a breath, I said the only words I should’ve said, “Nice to meet you, Hugo.”
“What exactly does a stylist to the stars do?” he asked.
He had to be yanking my chain, but his perplexed expression said otherwise.
I hip checked him. “You don’t think those busy starlets have time to put their wardrobes together by themselves, do you? That they have all that fashion sense, and just look that cute all the time because they’re so adorable? Oh, no, no. They hire a stylist, who helps them find their look, then puts together clothes that make them look chic. Or fabulous. Or outrageous. They choose, we pull together the outfits. And when we’re not around, they have cheat cards to help them remember what looks good with what.”
His unibrow raised. “Really? Is that how my sister does it? Because when we were kids, she couldn’t even match her socks.”
I really had no idea. But I’d love a chance to style Stella. I mean, getting a chance to work with such an icon outside of So Cal would put me on the map. And I didn’t even have so much as a business card. Life really isn’t fair.
“She may just be fashion forward. She is beautiful.” With that hair and those eyes, she could walk around in a bathrobe from Motel 6, if they offered one, and she’d be the talk of the town.
Hugo looked at his phone, then at me. “Stella is many things. I don’t think fashion forward is one of them.”
I elbowed him gently. “Do tell,” I said, then laughed, “I’m kidding.”
Hugo looked up the road. “Well, Maisy, your tow truck is here. And it looks like my driver is right behind him. It was a pleasure meeting you. I do hope we meet again.”
What a crock of crap! I do hope we meet again. Who did he think he was fooling? But I chose to accept him at face value.
We shook hands again, and I looked past his hairy face to his eyes. They were icy blue like his sister’s. Only hers had a warmth behind them, his gave me a chill. Friendly as he seemed, no light shined in his eyes. Something sad lurked there.
Chapter 3
The tow truck driver could have been Hugo’s larger, dirtier, grumpier relative. He barely said three sentences as he hooked up my car. When I got in the grimy passenger seat, he said, “Where am I taking this thing?”
I gave him the address and pulled my credit card from my wallet. “How much do I owe you?”
He pulled into traffic, and without looking at me he said, “It’s already been paid for.”
“How is that…” I started to ask, then stopped. Only one possibility, Hugo had taken care of the cost. For the first time in days, my heart smiled.
Had that been what he’d been arranging when I’d walked up to the sidewalk? Maybe he’d noticed the stench of homeless in my car and really felt sorry for me. I hoped the grouchy tow truck driver smelled my diaper as I jumped out of the truck in front of my parents’ home.
I could almost hear the plastic of the seat liner as I jumped down from the massive truck. By the time it stopped at the curb and I got out, I could see my parents standing on the front porch.
Dad had apparently taken the day off when I called to let them know I’d be coming home. My mom semi-retired last year and now sells crafts on Etsy, so she’d be home anyway. I couldn’t say much more on the phone, because I didn’t want to worry them, and I didn’t want to break down in tears while driving. I’d get in a wreck for sure, the way my week had been going. And I couldn’t pull over, because I needed to make good time and get home as quickly as possible, before I changed my mind and stayed in California. Not that I didn’t want to stay, but I didn’t have any friends outside of my coworkers and my boyfriend’s circle of friends. My two best friends from college had moved back to Dallas.
My dad worked as a landscape architect, and my mom ran his office part-time (along with her Etsy), so they had some flexibility in their schedules, depending on the time of year, and how many housing developments my dad had bid on. I guess I picked a good time to come home, at least in terms of them being able to greet me. Bad in the case of one more mouth to feed.
The first words out of my mouth, “I promise I’ll have a job by the end of the week, even if it’s waiting tables. I’m good at waiting tables. I won’t be a drain, I promise.”
My dad stared at my deceased car being lowered by the tow truck, but my mom walked up and gave me a big hug. Then my brother walked out of the house in just his boxer shorts.
“Hey, sis,” Bruce said.
“Bruce, go put some pants on,” Mom hissed.
My dad looked back and shook his head, then pulled out his wallet and asked the driver, “How much?”
The driver unhooked my car, then looked at my dad and grunted, “Nothing,” and walked back to his truck and drove away.
“Okay, then.” My dad was taken aback. To me, “You okay, honey?”
My mom had let go of me when he walked up.
“I don’t know, Dad.” I took a deep breath in through my nose and out through my mouth, trying hard to keep the tears from welling in my eyes.
Both of my parents put their hands over their nose and mouth.
“What?” I asked.
“When was the last time you
brushed your teeth?” Dad asked.
I put my hand in front of my mouth and breathed into it. “I don’t smell anything.”
Mom said, “Smells like three days of morning breath.”
I moved my tongue around in my mouth. Felt like it, too. A film had coated every surface.
Bruce walked up and said, “What the hell? You look like shit.” Then he leaned closer, “And smell almost as bad.”
As any good sister would, I raised my arms and jumped at him to give him a big hug. Holding him in a bear hug, I said, “I’ve been driving for three days and sleeping in my car. I haven't stopped for anything but to get gas and pee. Oh, and I haven’t brushed my teeth, either.” I tried to kiss him on the cheek.
Bruce finally wrenched himself out of my grip. “And here I thought I was the loser in the family. I see the real one has arrived.”
“Thanks, bro.” I punched him.
“No, I mean really. Look at you.” He pulled out his phone and hit the camera button, then turned it around for a selfie, so I could use it as a mirror.
Holy crap. I got a good look. I’d been avoiding mirrors since New Mexico. My brown hair was a tangled mess on top of my head. I’d put it in a bun on the night I’d left and hadn’t done much with it since, other than tuck loose strands back in the elastic band. My lipstick looked like a three-year-old had applied it, and my eye makeup resembled a deranged clown who'd been caught in the rain.
No wonder the tow truck driver didn’t want to talk to me. And if I ever had the good luck to meet Stella Popovits again, I would remind her, “I’m the freak your brother helped out of the intersection that day in northeast Dallas.” I’m surprised Hugo even wanted to shake my hand. He probably asked his driver to bring antibacterial gel when he picked him up.
It didn't matter. We didn’t run in the same circles. I’d never see Hugo or Stella again. At least not in a capacity where I’d be able to walk up and say hello.
My dad pulled my brother’s phone from my hand and gave it back to him. “Go back in the house. The only difference between you and her right now is that she at least tried to look put together at some point in the last three days.”
Hello (Dressing A Billionaire #1) Page 2