Dirty Dealer: A Hero Club Novel

by Kacey Shea

  Today, I’m distracted, though. Frustrated, and it’s all thanks to a certain woman. Rachel is as tenacious and unpredictable as today’s surf. Maybe that’s why I’m so enamored. Why I can’t stay away no matter how many times she knocks my ego down. I’m sure a shrink would have something to say about it, but I’ll stick to my surf time therapy.

  When my muscles strain to the point I’m hardly able to push myself to my feet and the sun begins to set, I call it a day. I notice a few water bottle tops on my walk from the shoreline to the parking lot, and toss them into the center console of my Escalade. Three down, a few hundred to go. Great. I grab a quick shower back at my condo before changing back into my suit, then race to the studio to pick up Rachel.

  I shouldn’t be so excited, I’m only giving her a ride, but the promise of seeing her again is the highlight of my day. I’d like to do a whole lot more than give her a ride home. I’d prefer if she let me take her back to my place. Like she’d agree. One step at a time. I hardly know the woman. I need to gain her trust first. The mind-blowing sex will come later. Call me cocky or plain self-assured, but I’m counting on it.

  Me: Here when you are ready

  Rachel: Wrapping up now. I’ll just be a few minutes.

  Me: Take your time.

  I find an open parking spot and then wander outside the studio. This time of day, the lots are still busy. Some still filming. Others breaking for dinner. One thing most people don’t realize is the crazy hours that come with the film industry. I wonder if Rachel always works on sets, and if she has a regular gig. Something tells me she doesn’t. Not with the way she lugs her own makeup kits around.

  “What the hell? Jude Lawrence?”

  I turn toward my name and the man jogging my way. I recognize him instantly. “Trent Donavan.” Rock star. Business owner. He hired me to track down a few guitars for his wife’s recording studio a year or two ago. Classics, no longer available for purchase, and played by icons like Hendrix, Idol, and Joplin, make for a challenging hunt and stellar payday.

  “How are you?” I smile wide.

  “Great, man.” He holds out his hand and then pulls me into a hug, releasing me with a slap to the back.

  “How’s business?”

  “Dude.” He shakes his head, smile wide. “My wife and her sister have been signing artists left and right. Albums going platinum. Couldn’t ask for more.”

  “That’s great.” I glance around for Lexi, or any of the guys from his band, but he must be alone. “Conquered the music scene. Now on to movies?”

  “Oh, no. Meeting a friend for dinner.” He rocks back on the heels of his combat boots. “She’s supposed to be on break now, but you know how that goes.”

  I’ve dated a few actresses over the years, so yeah, I do.

  “Jude?” Rachel’s voice reaches my ears like a hit of my favorite drug.

  “Good to see you, man.” I clasp Trent on his shoulder, and nod over to where Rachel stands. “I have my own dinner plans.”

  “I won’t keep you.” Trent grins and tips his chin, offering Rachel a wave good-bye as she approaches. “See you around.”

  As Trent walks away, I turn to meet Rachel. Slack jawed and eyes glued to the rock star, she’s distracted by his retreating form. Irritation prickles down my spine. I want her looking at me like that. Only me.

  “Was that who I think it was?” She all but bounces on her toes.

  My lips pull down in a frown. “He’s married.” I grumble. I stalk to the Escalade and unlock the doors.

  “I know that!” She blinks and shakes her head with a smile, catching up to round the vehicle and climb in. “I also listened to his album on repeat for most of my senior year of college.”

  “You went to college?” I snap my seat belt into place and start the engine.

  “Yeah.” She rolls her eyes. “Didn’t you?”

  “Sure. Yeah.” I mean, technically I went. For a semester. She doesn’t need to know I dropped out, and I have no desire to take a walk down memory road.

  “But because I’m a makeup artist, what, you assume I’m not smart?” Her smile fades. “That I couldn’t possibly have a degree? That instead of working some corporate gig, I decided to take a chance and follow my passion? Do you even realize how competitive this industry is? How difficult it is to find regular work?”

  My mouth hangs agape as I try not to cringe under her rant. Shit. I have a lot of work to do if I expect to convince her to have dinner with me again. I pull out of the lot and into traffic.

  “What?” She juts her chin in defiance.

  “First off, I guessed you didn’t go to college because I assumed you went to school for this. You’re really good, Rachel.” I sneak a side glance. “That doesn’t happen overnight.”

  “How do you know I’m any good?”

  “I did a little stalking of my own last night.”

  “What?”

  “Sorry, that sounded wrong.” I inhale a breath, not understanding how I always end up saying the wrong thing around this woman. I scrape up what’s left of my bruised confidence and try again. “I found your social media accounts. You’ve worked on a lot of different sets and jobs. The costume makeup is especially impressive.” I might have watched all her YouTube videos last night. Okay, I did, but that’s something I won’t admit.

  “Oh, yeah.” She shrugs, but her cheeks redden with my compliments. “It’s fun. I’ve always been into that.”

  “Do you work on a lot of movie sets?”

  She shrugs. “Some.”

  She’s closed off, her focus elsewhere, and I don’t know how to get her back.

  “Mind if I—” She leans forward to mess with the radio controls.

  Once the volume goes up, I’ll have missed my window. But I can’t very well demand we not listen to music. “Sure. Hey, I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. Burgers and fries again? Or something else?”

  She bites her lower lip and her gaze darts to mine with an apologetic shrug. “I better not.”

  That wave of opportunity approaches. Crashes. Tosses me head first into a mouthful of kelp. “Right.”

  She turns up the music and drowns out any further chance at conversation. My hopes for this evening die a slow and painful death to the tunes of ‘90s top hits. I’ve reached a new low. Yet I spend the rest of the drive concocting some way to salvage this.

  13

  Rachel

  My hand reaches for the door handle the second Jude shifts into park outside my apartment. The ride was almost painful, my silence and music selection warding off any friendly conversation. I almost broke on more than one occasion. But then I remembered Ethan’s voicemail and my resolve to keep things one hundred percent platonic between myself and Jude cemented with each mile. As much as I enjoy Jude’s company, I can’t fall into old habits. I won’t lose myself in another man.

  “I’ll pick you up tomorrow.”

  “Oh, no. I don’t need a ride.”

  He sighs. “I thought we’ve been through this. I’m driving you.”

  “No, it’s not that.” I fiddle with the strap on my handbag. I hate having to explain myself to anyone, not because I’m embarrassed, but because I don’t want to think about my future. Even though Jude’s been so helpful, basically the nicest person I’ve met since moving here, he deserves to know. Besides, I wouldn’t put it past him to show up to my apartment every morning if I didn’t give him a reasonable explanation. “My contract for the job is up. I don’t have anything on the books, just a modeling shoot over the weekend, and for that I’m driving down with one of the models.”

  “Model?” His harsh tone catches me by surprise.

  Is he jealous? I don’t know why he would be, but I sort of like the idea. Which is bad, bad, bad. Get it together, Rae. No leading him on. No thrill at the glimpse of his alpha protectiveness.

  “Also one of my roommates. She got me the job.” I probably imagine it, but his shoulders seem to relax.

  He drums his
fingers on the steering wheel, his gaze not meeting mine. “So you’re between gigs, then?”

  Of course. He’s not jealous of me spending time with models. He’s concerned I’m going to ghost on him. Probably why he’s so insistent on giving me rides. “If you’re worried about the two grand to fix Iron Maiden, I’m good for it. I can get you the cash now.” Sure. It’ll drain my entire savings and I will have to resort to a strictly ramen diet to make rent next month, but I knew I’d have to shell out money for the repairs soon.

  “Rachel.” He grinds his teeth and flashes me a glare. “Stop.”

  “What?”

  He opens his mouth as if to say something, but shakes his head in the negative. “The mechanic doesn’t need the money until you pick up the car. I trust you won’t screw me over. Or abandon that old car you seem to love, though I don’t understand why.” He chuckles. “Besides, I know where you live.”

  I roll my eyes, but his teasing brings a grin to my lips. “You’re going to miss hauling my ass all over LA, that’s it, then?”

  He grins back, his smile growing wider. “You have no idea.”

  “Sorry to disappoint.”

  “If anything changes, you’ll text me?”

  “Sure.” I reach for the door again.

  He reaches out, brushing my bare arm with a surprisingly gentle touch. “Promise me, Rachel.”

  “Fine.” I draw out the word as if it pains me to relent, but the truth is this is a deal I have no problem agreeing to. It’s not as if I’ll get a call out of the blue between now and next week. I meet his gaze. “I promise.”

  He smiles, too pleased with himself and sporting an I just won grin. He hops out and helps me unload my makeup.

  “Later, Jude.” I lift my hand in a wave, determined to walk away before he offers to see me to the door. Behind me I hear him mutter something that sounds a lot like, “Sooner than you think, beautiful.”

  God, if Jude turns out to be some stalker psycho, I am going to lose my shit. First Iron Maiden, now my lack of work. I can’t take another hit. I stick my key in the door and glance over my shoulder. Sure enough, he’s staring. Only, he doesn’t give off creepy vibes. No, the look in his eyes is one of unapologetic interest. The focus of his gaze is on my lower half. Yeah, he’s checking out my ass.

  I’ve still got it. I sway my hips with an extra dose of confidence as I push into the apartment and lock the door. Music assaults my ears, along with the clatter of dishes.

  “Hey, Rae!” Jenni pops her head beneath the upper cabinets that separate our small kitchen from the living area. She shimmies her hips and wields a big spoon in the other.

  “Hey.” Is that pasta? The aroma of cooked tomatoes and spices fills my nostrils and my stomach grumbles. “You look happy.”

  “I got the part!”

  “That’s fantastic!” I don’t remember what role, because let’s face it, she goes on dozens of auditions, but I know from my own experience how exciting it is to get selected over others when it’s something you want so badly. “Congrats!”

  “Thanks! I can’t wipe this smile off my face. You missed the happy dance and screaming.” She points her spoon at a boiling pot. “You hungry? I made too much.”

  “I’d love some. Smells good.”

  “Steady work for the next two weeks calls for celebration. It’ll be done in fifteen.” She turns back to the stove.

  I pass by on my way to my bedroom, noting the usual absence of bodies. “Where’s everyone else?”

  “Working, I think.”

  I roll my traveling makeup cart into my corner of the bedroom, then ditch my clothes for cotton shorts and an old T-shirt. My phone is low on battery, so I plug it into my charger before heading back to the kitchen.

  Jenni dishes out two plates of pasta and my mouth waters at the sight. She nods to the barstools and I join her after filling my water.

  “Oh, my God.” The first bite hits my taste buds with a burst of pleasure. I don’t stop chewing as I turn to Jenni and convey my appreciation. “You made this? It’s so good.”

  She twists noodles around her fork with a smile. “Yeah? Not bad, right? My grandma taught me. I can make, like, this and two other things.”

  “I would eat this every day.”

  She laughs and nods. “Right? If I could get away with the carbs, this is all I’d ever want. But I felt like celebrating.” Jenni is a stick. Her figure is that of actual movie stars, which does not come easy. I’ve seen the extreme diet and exercise most of my roommates abide by. No, thank you. I’ll happily take my curves and carbs.

  I swallow another bite, then force myself to slow down to make the meal last longer. “Tell me about the role.”

  “It’s a cheesy teen romance mini-series and I’m the mean girl!” Jenni turns her chair and flips her hair over one shoulder with a contagious smile. “I have lines. Plural. It’s being produced by Terrance Underwood. And the best part? They need me on set for an entire month. I’ve never been more excited to be a raging bitch.”

  “That’s amazing.”

  “And if it gets picked up for another season?” She laughs, shaking her head. “God! I can’t even start to think what that could mean for my career. I’ve literally been waiting for something like this. Some kind of reassurance I’m not wasting my life on a stupid dream, you know?”

  I swallow down my last bite of pasta. Yeah. I know exactly what she means. Only, this woman before me is twenty-two with her entire future ahead of her, with years to figure things out. She has time to give. I’m almost thirty without a home, job, or working vehicle. Am I wasting my time? Fooling myself? I mean, this isn’t all I want out of life. Someday, I want a family. A husband and a couple of children. By pursuing my pipe dream of a career, am I giving up on everything I’ll later regret? I shake off the defeatist thoughts. Thinking like that will get me nowhere.

  I am happy for my nicest roommate. But damn, I sure could use a sign myself. I stand from the barstool and take my dish to the sink. A few dirty saucepans litter the stove top. “I’ll clean up.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to.” Jenni practically skips to my side, setting her plate atop mine in the sink. She moves to my right as I start to scrub and rinse the dishes, holding out her hand with a clean dishtowel in the other. “Here. I’ll dry.”

  We work in companionable silence, music from her small speaker filling the space. This is the most time I’ve spent with Jenni, or any of my roommates. It reminds me of living back in Chicago. Dinners with my brother and his husband, or at Mia and Matt’s. Back when my friends were a train stop away. Where there was always an ear to listen, a shoulder to lean on, a girlfriend to grab drinks with. I’ve been so consumed with working in the three months I’ve been here, I never allow myself to realize just how lonely I am. Rinsing the last suds off a final dish, I swallow back the urge to cry.

  “Hey, so like, I know you’re probably busy, but maybe would you want to go out and celebrate with me this weekend?” Jenni takes the dish from my hand to dry. If she notices me blinking back tears of homesickness, she doesn’t let on. “I’m getting together with some friends Saturday night. We’re gonna hit up a club. Have a few drinks. Nothing crazy or anything, just a good time.”

  I open my mouth to answer, but realize if I try to talk I’ll probably cry. I haven’t been asked to go out with any of my roommates since moving here. Not socially. Once they discovered I did professional makeup I was invited to help them get ready, or hired for a few small gigs. But this, this is just Jenni being kind because she wants to.

  She must read my hesitation as disinterest. “I know you work a lot, and like, my friends are way younger so I totally understand if you don’t want to hang with us, or it’s not your—.”

  “No,” I interrupt. “I would love to go out. Thank you for asking.”

  She grins, placing the last of the dishes into the cabinet. “Cool. I’ll head out sometime after eight. Nothing too extravagant. A little black dress, and well, I don’t have
to help you with hair and makeup.” She laughs lightly. “My friend knows the bouncers for a few clubs, so we won’t have to pay cover.”

  “Cool.” I force a natural smile. Crap. I didn’t even consider the expense. If I don’t book more work, I won’t have much in my bank account for a night out. Even if I do, it’ll be cutting it close. But I can’t turn her down. I am in desperate need of socialization and fun. I’ll eat beforehand, and I can sip on water instead of drinking. I need this. All work and no play makes me a very sad girl. I wipe down the counter and sink, then straighten the hand towel. “I’ll be ready. I’m working a shoot that day with Andrea, but we should be back way before that.”

  “Awesome. Okay, well, I’m gonna memorize lines and turn in.” She claps and bounces on the balls of her feet.

  I can’t help but grin. “Thanks again for dinner.”

  “No problem, roomie. Just call me Chef Ramsey.” She flashes another smile and I see how much Hollywood is going to love her. She has one of those genuine smiles. A confidence that isn’t faked. Her energy is addictive.

  I walk back to my room to grab my bathroom caddy. I should turn in as well. Attempt a few hours of sleep before the late-night crowd comes back from late shifts at their respective serving jobs. But I’ll wash my face and brush my teeth before collapsing in bed.

  The buzz of an incoming phone notification catches my attention. By the rhythmic beat I can tell it’s a phone call and not a text. The only calls I ever receive are from potential clients or my family back home. I drop all my stuff without making a mess and dive across my bed before the call goes to voicemail. “Hello?” I say, slightly out of breath.

  “Is this Rachel Delgado?”

  “Speaking.”

  “I’m Jake Ryan and I’m one of the production managers for Americana Studios,” he says, and I nod even though he can’t see. “I’m looking at your work right now. Very impressive. I also like your online presence.” He hums appreciatively.

  My stomach flutters with anticipation. Is this a joke? I search my memory for a Jake Ryan but come up blank. Why is he calling, and more importantly, where did he get my number?