by Kacey Shea
He’s right. Damn it. Tears well in my eyes and I blink them back.
“Wait, are you two talking about ‘Ask Ida?’” Cora walks over and sets her phone, water, and a stack of screenplay sheets on the counter near my makeup. Her eyes are bright with interest. “I love ‘Ask Ida!’”
De’Shaun pats the chair. “Sit, baby doll.”
“What’s ‘Ask Ida?’” I say, desperate to change the subject. We talk about a lot of things during hair and makeup, but my relationship woes are not one of them. Also, my eyeliner is on point today. I have no intention of ruining it with tears.
“Oh, my God.” Cora settles back in her chair. “You have to follow her. It started as an advice column for some little local paper in New York City, but then she started an Insta and Twitter, and blew up. Like, I could spend hours just from the comments alone.”
“I’ll have to check it out.” I unscrew the cap on the moisturizer and apply it to her skin.
“People ask questions about love and all sorts of stuff, and her advice is like gold,” she says. I finish smoothing out her skin. De’Shaun brushes out her hair. It’s a choreographed dance we’ve perfected, talking, working, and not getting in each other’s way.
Cora laughs lightly. “I don’t even know why I waste my time on a shrink anymore.”
“Now, this I need to see.” De’Shaun laughs.
Cora leans forward and grabs her cell as I reach for the foundation. “Oh, my God. I read one last night and it literally hit me in the feels.” She taps on the screen and starts scrolling. “He fucked up. I mean, don’t they all? But his desperation to get her back. God, it was so heartfelt. The stuff of epic love stories.” She holds the screen so she’s still able to read while I apply the base of her foundation. “Dear Ida, I can’t believe I’ve resorted to an online advice column but I’m desperate for help. My story isn’t so different from everyone else’s. I did some things to help out a friend. Not illegal things, but stuff I knew she wouldn’t agree to if she knew I was behind it. This friend is one of those friends I wanted to sleep with from the second my eyes saw her. But she’s not an easy catch. She’s infuriatingly stubborn, righteously independent, and not at all impressed by my wealth or social connections.” Cora reaches for her water and takes a sip.
Okay, this letter hits a little closer than I’d like. This is the very reason I can’t stop thinking about Jude. Everything reminds me of us.
“Honestly, this made me fall for her even more. She wasn’t intimidated by my success, because she was focused on her own. I was addicted to everything about her. Her laugh. Her smile. Her body, though all I could do was look, because this woman was not interested in sleeping with me. Which had never been a problem for me until her.” Cora lifts her gaze to meet De’Shaun’s. “This is where it gets juicy!” She glances back to her screen. “By this point I was rearranging my entire life just to spend time with her, even if it was to drive her to work. It still wasn’t enough, so when she had some roommate trouble, I saw an opportunity and took it. I convinced her to move in with me, and it was great, well, except for the sexual frustration. Try sleeping down the hall from the woman you can’t stop thinking about and not being constantly aroused. It’s impossible. But even that was worth it, because this woman made all of my days brighter.”
I swallow against the lump forming in the back of my throat. There’s no way that’s Jude, or about me. The similarities are merely coincidence, and my imagination is flying wild. My gaze flicks up to catch De’Shaun staring.
“That could be about anyone,” he says, drawing my same conclusion.
“Keep reading,” I whisper, needing to know the rest.
“By some miracle, she decides I’m worthy of her love and we finally sleep together. It’s the most intense, mind-blowing, soul-satisfying sex of my life. Except I realize now, I should have come clean about those non-illegal things I did to help her out.”
De’Shaun has long deserted his styling tools.
I can’t bring my fingers or brain to concentrate on anything other than Cora’s next words.
It doesn’t matter that she’ll show up late on set, or we’ll probably run behind schedule all day. We both lean over her shoulder, anxious to know the rest of the letter.
“Because the first night we sleep together, one of her friends overhears one of my asshole friends from high school proposition me for a turn with my woman. That he’d pay me to make it happen. Only, the friend doesn’t hear the part where I tell him to fuck himself if he even thinks about making a move on my girl.” Cora lifts her gaze. “It’s good, right?”
“Read the rest!” De’Shaun practically yells.
Cora’s eyes widen, but she honors his request. “She found out about everything. She called me a liar. Which I am, but not about that. She won’t take my calls or answer my texts. She’s made it perfectly clear she wants nothing to do with me, and that I should move on without her. But I can’t. How do I let her know I never made that deal? That I love her so much I can’t even leave my house; there’s no point when she holds my heart captive. I forgot how to live the day she walked out.” Cora inhales, her brows furrowed and voice strained. “Desperately awaiting your wisdom. Signed, Mr. Dirty Dealer.”
“Daammnn.” De’Shaun whistles, his eyes wide and blinking with shock. “Okay, so maybe it’s him.”
“You think?” I all but yell.
“You know who this is?” Cora’s eyes dart from De’Shaun to me. “Wait, is this about you? Oh, my God!” Her jaw drops open and she releases a squeal. “This is so exciting!”
My mind reels. My thoughts race like a movie playing in double time, I can’t process it all. The truth, all of it, comes together and offers me an olive branch I’m almost too scared to reach for.
“Rae, honey. This changes everything.” De’Shaun says what I can’t.
“What did Ida say?” I almost rip the phone from Cora’s hands, desperation thick in my tone. “What did she tell him to do?”
“Oh, right.” Cora lifts her phone and scrolls to find her place. “Dear Dirty Dealer.” Her gaze flicks to mine, and there’s a worried expression on her lips. “Honesty is a staple of any relationship. Communication, the biggest obstacle for most couples. Try writing her a letter to express your feelings and share your truth. But understand that when we abuse trust and hurt the ones we love, they are under no obligation to offer another chance. The best of luck, Ida.”
“Well, that’s grim.” De’Shaun blanches.
My body buzzes with a restless energy. So, what? I wait for him to send a letter? That could take weeks. Or never. “What about the comments?”
“Oh, honey.” De’Shaun shares a knowing glance with Cora and shakes his head. “You never read the comments.”
“But”—I’m confused—“you just said you read for the comments.”
“When it’s not about people I care about.” Cora locks her screen and places her phone on the counter. “Believe me. You don’t want the keyboard warriors’ opinions. Not for this.”
I can’t decide whether I’m annoyed or endeared by her words.
“Shit.” De’Shaun picks up his styling tool. “We need to get back to work.” He meets my stare from over Cora’s head, picking up a section of her hair. “You good?”
“I can work,” I say, turning to my row of brushes. Focus on makeup. Get through the day. I can do this. There’s no reason I can’t. Except the thought of Jude, heartbroken in his condo with only Walter for company, is almost too much to push aside. “Last month my biggest problem was paying rent and finding reliable work.” I suck in a ragged breath. “Now . . . I . . .” Fuck. Is De’Shaun right? Does this change everything? It’s almost too much to hope. “What do I do?”
“What do you want to do?” De’Shaun asks.
“I think I need to talk to him.” I swallow thickly. “He still lied about my car.”
“Yep.” De’Shaun nods. “Pretty awful of him, paying to fix it for you.”
&nb
sp; I glare. “And he got me this job.”
Cora makes a clucking noise, earning our attention. “No. He didn’t.”
“What?” I blink, confused again. How does Cora know—? Then it hits me. God, I feel stupid I never made the connection. She’s always photographed with them. “You’re friends with the members of Three Ugly Guys. The lead singer, Trent, he knows Jude Lawrence. I know he called in a favor.”
“Yeah, Trent called me a few days before you started. He asked if we had any openings, but he didn’t get you the job. I vetted you before I made the suggestion to production.” Her eyes hold complete sincerity, as if she knows how much I need to hear this. “You’re amazing, Rae. I wasn’t joking when I told you I’m addicted to your tutorial videos.” She turns in her seat when De’Shaun releases her hair from the hot iron. “Honestly, I wish you would make more.”
I swallow against the tightness in my chest. All the indignation I felt for staying away from Jude is gone. Yes, he did lie, but only about things we can work through. “I want to talk to Jude. I want him back.”
Cora’s eyes brighten, and she claps her hands. “Yes! Please tell me I get to be there when you win him back! I live for real life romance.”
I think back to his “Ask Ida” letter. Yeah, he made some mistakes, but I did too. I never let him explain. I wouldn’t hear the truth. I need to apologize for that. Jude laid himself out in that letter—all his feelings, all his love—and I want to do the same. “Would you both help me out? Tonight, after we’re done for the day?” I bite my bottom lip, and reach for a makeup brush, an idea taking flight.
49
Jude
There’s a knock at my door, incessant and persistent. Knock, knock. Knock, knock, bang.
The considerate response would be to answer it, but then I’d have to leave my couch. Why bother? It’s not her.
Walter springs from his perch on my legs and bounds off the couch, yapping and barking between ferocious growls. The knocking continues and I exhale and stare back at the television screen. I tune out the barking, like I do most things these days. If I ignore it enough, I can pretend the outside world doesn’t exist. That Rachel’s not out there somewhere, going on with her life without me.
Whoever it is gives up, and eventually Walter returns. My buddy. He stares expectantly, as if he’s forgotten I’m a ball of pathetic waste. I should get up. At the very least, I could walk him tonight. But then again, I should do a lot of things. The game plays on, but I don’t even care who wins.
A click at the door propels me to at least sit up and pull a blanket over myself. Because I also gave up wearing pants. I glance out the window, surprised to still find sunlight. Three times a day the security team comes into my condo to deliver takeout and take Walter for a walk. They never ask why I can’t do it myself, but then again, they probably don’t care because they’re getting paid.
The footfalls against my wood floors come to an abrupt stop. “This is disturbing.”
Shit. I only know one Australian. Who the hell gave him a key? “What?” I sit up and glance over to find Chance judging the current status of my condo. It’s bad. Really bad. Stacks of takeout boxes. Empty bottles of beer on every flat surface. Blankets wadded at the end of the couch. Dirty clothes scattered throughout. “I’ve been really busy.” But that’s not true. I’ve spent the last three weeks wallowing in self-pity. When Rachel left, I threw myself into my work. It’s how I coped after my mom died, and it’s a lot healthier than drowning in a bottle. The first week was hard, but I had hope. She wasn’t taking my calls or answering my texts, but at least I could leave voicemails and messages. I apologized. I begged. I didn’t stalk her at work though, figuring that would only ruin any chance of earning her trust again.
Day seven my messages stopped showing as delivered and my calls were going straight to voicemail. She’d blocked me. It was a kick in the balls and a slap of reality. She wasn’t coming back. She wasn’t forgiving me. I had fucked up the best thing to come into my life. My one chance at happiness. After that, I stopped moving forward. I stopped caring.
“I know you have money for a housekeeper,” Chance says, stepping over a pile of discarded pizza boxes. “Fuck, this is disgusting. You’re disgusting. When was the last time you showered?”
I couldn’t answer because I didn’t know. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Like hell it doesn’t. You made me bust my ass to finish the mermaid piece for the hotel opening, and we are going.”
Right. That’s tonight. “I’m not in the mood.”
“Mate, I love you like a brother, which is why what I’m about to say might be hard to hear.” He grabs one of the chairs from across the room, drags it over, and sits across from me. Leaning forward, he pins me with a glare. “Get your ass off this couch and into the shower. You are coming with me, whether you like it or not.”
My head falls forward, and I can’t meet his gaze. I don’t want to go. I don’t ever want to leave this couch. But he’s right. I run a hand through my hair, releasing a frustrated breath.
“Hey.” He waits for me to lift my stare. His lips pinch with concern, his gaze softer. “I get it, I do. She left.” He pauses, allowing the reality of it to stretch between us. Tears well in my eyes, but that doesn’t stop him. “That was her choice to make, and as much as you don’t like it, you have to live with it. Life is short, and I will not sit by while you piss yours away.”
“I love her.”
He grunts, clasping me on the shoulder. “I know, man. I know.”
I inhale, closing my eyes so I won’t cry. It’s bad enough he sees me with my heart shredded to pieces. But as much as I hate to admit it, he’s right. I can’t spend the rest of my days hiding out in my condo. It doesn’t change the truth. Life is passing me by. Hell, she’s moved on with hers. My throat clenches. A single tear drops and my heart splits open all over again.
“Ah, fuck. Don’t cry. Aubrey’s not here, and I’m not any good at that stuff.”
I laugh, and though it still hurts, it’s nice to find something funny. “Where is she? She never misses one of your reveals.”
“She, uh, isn’t feeling so great. We thought it better she rest at home with CJ rather than stop for puke breaks.”
“She’s got the stomach flu?” My brows rise. “You left her home with Chance Junior?”
“Not the flu.” A smile works his way onto his lips. “Aubrey’s pregnant. Another little Bateman to take over the world.”
“What?” For a split second I wish it were me getting to share such news. I swallow back the tinge of resentment that threatens to sour this joyful moment. The smile on my lips is a foreign feeling, but it’s a step in the right direction. “I’m happy for you.”
“Thanks, mate. We’re thrilled.” He shoves to his feet and moves the chair back to the table. “Now, go shower. Times a ticking, and I can smell you from here.”
“Fine. I’m going.” The blanket drops from my waist as I stand, and I adjust my boxer briefs so Chance doesn’t get a peep show as I walk toward the hall.
“And shave that small animal off your face,” he calls after me. “You’re starting to resemble a goat!”
I cringe a little at the imagery. Turning in the doorway, I narrow him with a glare. “That hurts.”
He nods, his lips pressed in a firm line. “The truth does that.”
50
Rachel
“I’m so glad you invited me.” Cora bounces in her seat as she plows over a bump in the road intended to deter drivers from speeding. From the ten minutes I’ve spent in her Hummer, two things are clear. She doesn’t adhere to road signs or speed limits, and I might never see Jude again because there’s a very real chance she’ll kill us all. “This is so much fun.”
“Honey, that’s a red light,” De’Shaun says from the front passenger seat.
“Short cut.” Cora smiles, cranking the music and the steering wheel simultaneously.
I grip the handle above my seat in the b
ack, and hold on for life as Cora takes another turn. Jesus. Who gave this woman a license? Or sold her a military grade vehicle?
“Nervous?” De’Shaun turns in his seat to meet my gaze.
“Totally.” This time as my stomach dips and dives, though it has nothing to do with Cora’s driving. I suck in a breath and shake off the nerves. It felt like a good idea when we came up with it this morning, but now—now, I can’t stop picturing all the ways it could go wrong. “You’re sure he’ll be here. And we can get in?”
“No one turns Cora Bentley away from a publicity event.” Cora winks at me through the rear mirror. I wish she’d keep her focus on the road. “Ever.”
De’Shaun swears under his breath. “Do you always refer to yourself in third person?”
She rolls her eyes at De’Shaun, but laughs. I appreciate how easygoing she is and, despite her poor driving, her social connections.
“You sure this will work?” My knee bounces as I press my toe to the floorboard of the car. There’s a good chance he won’t want to see me. Or hear what I have to say. If he’s angry, I’ll understand. I can work with angry. I ignored his calls and texts, then blocked him for good measure. But if he won’t even give me a chance? I think about the “Ask Ida” letter. God, I hate knowing how much I hurt him. I wish I knew when he sent that. Was it weeks ago? “What if he’s already moved on?”
“Stop,” De’Shaun says, his tone serious. “No negative thoughts. Our plan is brilliant, and you are going to get your man.”