Bad Attitude

by Tiffany White

  “It took a lot of doing for her to get the part in this movie. She tested several times for it before they gave it to her. I’d say Heather Simms is determined to get whatever she wants.”

  Molly smiled ruefully. “Sounds like Heather and I have something in common, then. I’m equally determined to get what I want. I only hope we aren’t at cross-purposes.”

  THE REVVING of a powerful motorbike caught everyone’s attention that afternoon.

  Only someone crazy would be out on a motorbike in this pouring rain. It was even dangerous to ride on wet pavement, never mind mud and gravel.

  Trailer doors were pushed open to see who it was. Molly was sure she wasn’t the only one thinking Mitch, despite his twisted ankle, was the most likely candidate.

  Instead she saw a mountain of a man, sitting astride an idling Harley-Davidson. He was dressed in enough black leather to upholster a sofa and seemed heedless of the steady rain.

  She groaned, her worst fears confirmed, when the biker removed his helmet. She could kiss good-bye to her future as an agent for Ketteridge.

  Sonny Sims had arrived. The scowl beneath his exaggerated, F Manchu mustache, didn’t portend anything good. A twisted ankle was going to be the very least of Mitch’s problems, if Heather was still in the trailer with him.

  Sonny spotted the director. “Hey, you! “You know which one of these bread boxes my wife is in?” he bellowed.

  “You’re?” the director asked.

  Sonny looked incredulous. “You’re kidding, right? No wonder you’re so pale. You must live in a cave somewhere. Haven’t you heard of Sonny Sims?”

  The director shook his head. “No, can’t say as I have.”

  “I’m Sonny Sims, world champion wrestler.”

  Sonny spied the key grip. “Hey, kid, how about you? You know where my wife’s trailer is?”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Sims. That’s her trailer over there.” The key grip pointed.

  “About time someone around here knew something. I was fixing’ to drown, waiting for an answer to my simple question.”

  Molly inched the door shut, until there was only a crack she could see through. She didn’t think Sonny had seen her, and she wanted to keep things that way for now.

  Sonny slapped his leather-gloved fist into the palm of his other hand. “A person would have to think there was something suspicious going on here, if they weren’t a trusting sort like me. They might even give some notice to the rumors about my Heather Anne being hot for that pretty boy starring in this movie with her.”

  Molly’s heart sank. Sonny Sims was looking for a fight—spoiling for one.

  The smile beneath the mustache was menacing. “Y’all go back to what you were doing. I’m going to surprise my wife.” With that he shut off the motorbike and dismounted, heading for Heather’s trailer.

  Molly offered up prayers that Heather was indeed in her own trailer … and alone.

  Her prayers went unanswered.

  Moments later she heard Sonny emerge from Heather’s trailer. “Where’s my wife?” he roared.

  “She ain’t in her own trailer!” Slamming the door, he made his way to the one next to Heather’s.

  “Is she in here with that pretty-boy actor? Is that who you’re all trying to protect? Which trailer is his? Tell me!” he demanded, yanking the door open.

  Molly heard him banging around inside, then watched in horror when he came back out, angrier than when he’d gone in. “I’m gonna kill that son of a bitch Marlowe when I find him, if he’s with my woman.”

  Sonny approached the next trailer and continued his jealous search. No one said a word.

  Molly didn’t allow herself time to think. As soon as she saw Sonny enter the next trailer, she made a mad dash for Mitch’s.

  Not bothering to knock, she pulled open the door and rushed inside.

  The living area was empty. The television set was off. Molly hastily surveyed the area for any sign of Heather’s clothing and breathed a small sigh of relief when she didn’t spot any.

  “Mitch, are you here?” she called, hurrying back to the bedroom area.

  When she was met with no reply, she ventured into his bedroom, forcing herself not to close her eyes. She had a good reason for walking in on him—or them.

  He was asleep.

  Naked.

  And, what was most important, alone.

  She had to act fast. There was no time to appreciate the golden perfection of his body.

  Though she knew what she was about to do was far above and beyond the call of duty, she had to protect him. Just being alone didn’t mean he was safe from Sonny Simmons’s jealous rage.

  “Don’t think, just do it,” she muttered, summoning her nerve. Time was of the essence. Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of her shirt, her nerves slowed her down as she discarded her clothes. Kicking off her shoes, she stepped out of her matching lace bra and panties. Mussing her hair, she took a deep breath and climbed into bed with Mitch. Her heart was pounding as she pulled the discarded sheet over the two of them.

  Mitch mumbled some endearment in his sleep and flung one arm and his uninjured leg over her, pinning her in place. His breath fluttered softly at her neck, a warm, sensuous caress. She smelled the faint scent of a designer cologne on his skin. The fine body hair of his leg tickled her smooth skin, making it flush.

  But most disturbing was his penis, suddenly alert and hard against her belly.

  It was just there. Mitch continued sleeping, while his body acknowledged her. She closed her eyes, her throat tight. Mitch might live through this, but she was going to die. All her movie-house fantasies were coming true.

  Right on cue there was an insistent pounding on the door. “Come on out here, pretty boy, or I’m coming in to get you!” Sonny Sims threatened.

  Still asleep, Mitch didn’t answer. He must have taken a painkiller for his ankle that knocked him out.

  The trailer door opened with a bang and Sonny barged in with Heather in tow. She didn’t look the least bit embarrassed by Sonny’s macho posturing. In fact, she seemed to be enjoying it. Until she saw Molly.

  Sonny stopped short. Heather didn’t even make a stab at hiding her surprise and disappointment at finding the two of them together.

  Waking at the commotion, Mitch sat up and blinked groggily. He looked from Sonny to Heather and then at Molly, who was very obviously naked beneath the sheet they were sharing. He said nothing.

  “What’s going on here?” Sonny demanded, clearly confused in spite of his aggressive posture.

  Mitch looked at him. “You tell me,” he said, yawning with supreme indifference.

  “What do you two think you’re doing, barging in on us like this?” Molly complained, playing the surprised lover.

  “Who are you?” Sonny demanded.

  “She’s my agent,” Mitch answered matter-off-aptly as Molly tugged the sheet under her chin.

  “You sleep with your agent?” Sonny asked.

  “I think you should leave,” Molly said, flinging her arm out to point the way. “Who Mitch sleeps with is hardly any concern of yours.”

  “It is if it’s my wife,” Sonny insisted.

  Molly didn’t know what came over her; she couldn’t believe the words that tumbled from her lips. “Sonny, I can assure you that Mitch here has almost more women than he can handle. Isn’t that right, honey?” She ran her finger seductively down Mitch’s jaw, wondering where she’d found the nerve. “And you know those rumors about all us redheads being spitfires?” She shook her mop of red curls for emphasis and informed Sonny, “It’s true. I don’t think you need to be worrying about Mitch sleeping with your wife, because if he were to try such a stunt, he’d find himself singing soprano permanently.”

  Mitch winced. “So now you know. My agent is a shark, and I’m way more afraid of her than I am of you.” Molly thought his performance worthy of an Oscar nomination.

  Behaving more than ho
spitably, Mitch reached out his hand, offering to shake. “Nice to meet you, Sonny. Now, if you don’t mind…” He turned to Molly and gave her a look that would have melted steel. “Molly and I were kinda busy.”

  “Oh. Ah. Sure.” Sonny ushered out a pouting Heather.

  Mitch kept Molly where she was with a warning look until they heard the sound of the trailer door closing.

  Molly then began to inch her way out of bed, dragging the sheet with her.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Mitch demanded.

  “Leaving.”

  He shook his head. “Wrong.”

  “Look, I can explain,” Molly said, reaching gingerly for her discarded clothing.

  “I’m listening.”

  “This isn’t what it looks like.”

  Mitch waited patiently.

  “Really, I was only trying to—”

  “Have your way with me while I was asleep? Shame on you, Molly. What would Peter say? Anyway, all you had to do was ask. I would have done the gentlemanly thing and obliged.”

  “Listen, Jerk face—”

  “You sure weren’t lying about that temper of yours, Red.” He let his gaze travel slowly over her sheet-draped curves. “A spitfire, you say?” he taunted.

  Molly looked around for something to throw besides a soft pillow and saw nothing within reach. “Look,” she fumed. “I did what I did to protect you from Sonny Sims. I didn’t know what else to do when he rode in here looking for blood—yours.”

  “He was? And you figured that by being naked in my bed, you’d distract him? Well, you certainly are distracting.”

  “I figured,” she said, “if he found the two of us together in an intimate setting, he’d more likely believe you weren’t sleeping with his wife.”

  “I’m not sleeping with Heather.”

  “Good.”

  “I’m sleeping with you,” he said, tugging at the sheet, beneath which she was covertly trying to don her clothes. “Haven’t you heard? I’m sure the news must have spread all over by now. In fact, I wouldn’t be half surprised to wake up in the morning and read about us in the International Intruder.”

  “Will you stop!” Snapping her jeans, she dropped the sheet. She glared at his frank appraisal as her lace bra disappeared under the oversize T-shirt she pulled on and knotted to one side. “I’m leaving now.”

  “Not a good idea,” Mitch said, putting his ankle upon a stack of pillows.

  “What?”

  “Think about it, Molly. You’ve got to follow through. It’s important we make what you started believable. If you leave now, he’ll know he’s been had.”

  “How—how exactly do you suggest we make this believable?” Molly stammered, eying him suspiciously.

  Mitch rubbed his bare chest while he considered her question. Finally he said, “You ever hear Bonnie Trait’s song, ‘Something to Talk about’?”

  Molly nodded.

  “I think that’s the action we ought to take. We’ve got to give ‘em something to talk about.”

  “You’re suggesting …”

  “Love bites.”

  “Love bites?”

  “Yeah, you know, hickeys. All you have to do is offer up your pretty neck, my sweet.”

  She shook her head. “No.” But Mitch was right. They would have to continue the charade of being lovers.

  Unfortunately, it was a role she found far too easy to play.

  7

  THE RINGING of the telephone jarred Mitch from a restless sleep. He flung out his arm in the dark, knocking the portable set to the floor. Lunging to catch it, he banged his injured ankle, swore and despite his groggy state, located the upended receiver where it had landed on the floor.

  “Hello…” he mumbled, massaging his ankle and wondering if there was any ice to put on it. He squinted at the travel clock beside his bed.

  “Peter, do you know what time it is?” Mitch grumbled into the receiver.

  “It’s still early. Don’t tell me you’re in bed at one o’clock.”

  “It’s not still early, and it’s not one o’clock, either. You’re calling the Midwest, where people go to bed with the chickens and where it’s two hours later than it is in California. It’s three o’clock in the morning here.”

  “Did I just hear you groan?” Peter asked.

  Mitch finished propping up his throbbing ankle with a pillow. “It’s nothing. I just banged my ankle when I dropped the phone. Now, what was it you wanted? Did Tom Cruise turn down $13 million to herd sheep in Australia with his wife or something and they’re offering the deal to me?”

  “I’m looking for Molly. She’s not in her trailer.”

  “I know. She’s right here with me.”

  “Damn it, Marlowe, it’s three in the morning.”

  “You want me to wake her?”

  “Put her on,” Peter growled.

  Mitch looked at Molly, who lay asleep on the other side of the bed—way on the other side—fully clothed. He hadn’t been able to talk her into a few love bites, but had made her see the sense of spending the night in his trailer.

  Turning on the light, he shook her arm gently to wake her.

  She continued to snore softly.

  He shook her again a little harder, calling her name.

  She blinked her eyes open; they were a deep, murky green from sleep. “Where—what?” she asked, disoriented.

  “Peter’s on the phone. Says he needs to talk to you.”

  “You didn’t tell him I was here!”

  Mitch nodded, gave her a wicked smile and handed her the phone.

  “Mr. Ketteridge?” Molly spoke uncertainly, realized she had the receiver upside down and righted it. Rubbing her eyes, she yawned and shot Mitch a puzzled, How did I get here? look.

  “I thought you promised not to have an affair with Marlowe.”

  “I’m not having an affair with a client,” she denied emphatically.

  “Careful, Red, you’ll ruin my bad reputation,” Mitch said behind her.

  “Is that a fact, Ms. Hill? Then you won’t mind explaining what you’re doing in Marlon’s trailer at three in the morning.”

  “What am I doing in Mitch’s trailer at three in the morning?” she repeated, looking at Mitch for a clue.

  He mouthed a name—Sonny Sims.

  Light dawned and she was fully awake. “I’m here, baby-sitting Mitch, what you sent me to do. Saving his life, actually.”

  “You’re sleeping with Marlowe to save his life? Really, Ms. Hill, what line did he feed you?”

  Molly ignored the sarcasm and plunged right in with her explanation. “You’ve heard of Sonny Sims….”

  “Yeah, the one with hands like hams,” she said in response to Peter’s apt description. “Well, Sonny boy showed up here with murder in his eyes. He was determined to find out if his wife Heather was having an affair with Mitch. I sort of averted the bloodshed by saying I was the one involved. That’s why I’m spending the night in his trailer.”

  “Get your things—” Peter began.

  “You can’t fire me! I’m not—”

  “I’m not firing you. I want you to move into Marlon’s trailer and stay there with him until the film wraps.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I’m dead serious. This Sims guy is a fruit-cake. He can ruin everything. Don’t you read the front page of the International Intruder? He and his wife are always battling over her wandering eye and his jealous rages. I don’t want Marlow in the middle of one of their infamous spats.”

  Dread—and excitement—consumed Molly as she listened to her boss’s reasoning. She was going to have to move in with Mitch for the duration of filming. It was nothing less than a direct order.

  “Okay, okay, I’ll do it if I absolutely must.”

  She heard Mitch mumble something about a liven baby-sitter and turned to glare at him.

  “Why were you calling, Mr. Ke
tteridge?”

  “I almost forgot. Are you the one who retyped my entire Rolodex?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Because I don’t know any Robert Abernathy at the Healing Center, yet I have a card on my Rolodex for him.”

  “Why are you in your office, looking at your Rolodex at one in the morning?”

  “It’s all your fault—yours and my mother’s!”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You were the one who suggested I get tickets to a Takers’ game to relax.”

  “Right. Did you have a relaxing time?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I believe it was you who suggested I take the mechanic my mother found for my temperamental car.”

  “That’s right. Didn’t that work out?”

  “Hardly. She turned out to be a Takers’ fan—a fanatical Takers’ fan. She threw her drink on another fan, starting a brawl that got us ejected from the game.”

  Molly’s hand flew to cover her lips to silence her laugh.

  “What? What?” Mitch inquired in a stage whisper, his curiosity getting the better of him, while Molly tried to keep him quiet.

  “I can never go back to a Takers’ game,” Peter groused.

  “Really, you were that embarrassed, Mr. Ketteridge Maybe you should look up that therapist. Abernathy, wasn’t it? He might be able to get you to relax.”

  “Don’t worry about me. You just move your things in with Marlowe.”

  “Okay, I have everything under control.” She was getting good at lying.

  “Even the weather?”

  “Well, maybe not the rain. But production should be starting back soon. It has to stop raining sometime.”

  SHE WOULD LOSE HER MIND, Molly was sure of it. She couldn’t continue to live with Mitch at such close quarters and not do something patently foolish.

  Only one day had passed, and already she was climbing the walls. Angie had helped her move her stuff earlier, and since then the rain had kept everyone in their own trailers. She’d tried to stay busy reading scripts Peter had sent her, but Mitch wanted to play games instead. She’d suggested he get together with the crew for some poker, but he’d said he was tired of playing poker for money and inquired if she knew how to play strip poker.