Hot in Hellcat Canyon

by Julie Anne Long

  “We all saw what happened yesterday. He call or text you last night?” Glenn asked her shortly.

  Britt was cagily silent.

  “Thought he would,” Glenn said triumphantly. “He maybe text you more than once?”

  She glared sullenly at him.

  Glenn was a parent. He could probably not only put up with her evasion all day, he could see right through her.

  “What’d he want, Britt?”

  “He wanted me to call him or text him back,” she finally, begrudgingly, confessed.

  “And did you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “I didn’t want to.”

  Glenn’s brows dove in a frown. “And is that all he wanted? He apologize for bailing like that?”

  Pride and wounded feelings and fury and a whole soup of other things made her want to lie to Glenn.

  Another part of her was curious about what he would say. Because she knew, deep down, both Glenn and Sherrie cared about her.

  “He wanted to come over,” she confessed. “And yes. He apologized.”

  Apparently she wasn’t going to be allowed to savor martyrdom for even a millisecond.

  “Thought so. McCord is a stand-­up guy. He cares about you. He fixed your porch.”

  Glenn equated carpentry with character.

  “Whose side are you on?” She was pissed now.

  “I’m on the side of whatever gets your moping over with fastest, which means you need to talk to him.”

  “Who says I’m moping?”

  Glenn snorted as if that didn’t even warrant an answer. “Go on, get going. I don’t want my food to get cold.”

  Britt narrowed her eyes at him.

  She finally snatched the bag from his hand. “You taught all your kids to swim by throwing them into the pool, didn’t you?”

  “Worked, too,” he said cheerfully. “They all swim like fish.”

  “Maybe it’s because they’re all part mermaid,” she called slyly over her shoulder as she stalked out of the Misty Cat.

  “Mer—­? Sherrie!” he bellowed.

  Britt would have trudged, protestingly, all the way to J. T.’s house—­it was a fifteen-­minute trudge, if she wanted to do it that way—­but her conscience got the better of her and there really was no sense in wasting good hot food, so she picked up the pace, and she was just about at that turn in the road when . . .

  Fuck.

  Her stomach did a swan dive off a cliff.

  Rebecca standing out on J. T.’s deck, gazing contemplatively out through the trees, in the manner of a woodland princess. She was clad only in a man’s white dress shirt, open to expose most of her clavicle, and it barely covered her butt. Her long, thin white thighs most decidedly did not touch.

  Britt pivoted, prepared to head off in the other direction and concoct a lie for Glenn, but she was a bad liar and apparently she had, much to her dismay, a sense of integrity.

  It was too late, anyway. Rebecca gave a start when she saw her.

  “Oh! Good morning! You’re that waitress . . . aren’t you?”

  She aimed a Klieg light smile at her. All blinding, uniform teeth and sparkly eyes.

  Zero actual human friendliness.

  Pretty, but a little unnerving. Quite a bit, in fact, like that billboard out on the highway.

  And if Rebecca had said nearly anything else, Britt might have thrust the white bag at her and bolted in the opposite direction.

  But that sentence had the ring of a sword unsheathing. And “that waitress” had been delivered gingerly.

  And that’s how Britt knew that Rebecca considered her worthy of competition.

  Britt’s competitive reflexes kicked in.

  “I suppose I am ‘that waitress.’ My name is Britt.”

  Britt smiled back at her. Her teeth might not look like piano keys, but her father had paid for orthodontia and she had dutifully worn her retainer every night for years.

  And two could play the “don’t blink” game.

  They played it for a few seconds more.

  “I’m Rebecca Corday, Britt. You might know me from that billboard out on the highway.” She gave a self-­deprecating little laugh and a hand flutter in that general direction.

  “Oh yeah. I know that billboard. It sure casts a shadow.”

  Britt thought she detected an eyebrow twitch.

  But Rebecca wasn’t the highest paid actress in the world for no reason.

  “I like your top,” Rebecca said brightly, finally. “That’s a great color on you. Walmart sure is making some cute clothes these days.”

  “They sure are,” Britt twinkled back at her.

  She expected Rebecca meant this as an insult. But it was really the wrong tack to take with her. She could talk for hours about her knack for finding a bargain, and she was proud of it and the top.

  “Are you here because you’re looking for John?” Rebecca said, her voice sympathetic. “He’s catnip to women. They were always tracking him down wherever he lived.”

  John? She called him John? That seemed all wrong. Very mundane. She wondered if that’s why Rebecca did it—­an attempt at domesticating him.

  “Tennessee” seemed to be so much a part of him that the ‘T’ at the very least seemed necessary.

  “I get the internet, too, Miss Corday,” she said evenly. “I’ve read the stories about him. I know him pretty well. And John called me twelve times yesterday.”

  This didn’t cause even a ripple over Rebecca Corday’s beautiful features. But she did go rather still.

  And then she tilted her head ever so slightly and studied her.

  “Is that so? You must not have called him back,” she said. “I can’t blame you. Given his history with me.”

  Damn. Rebecca was smart. Smart in a Dr. Evil sort of way. Britt had once seen a cat toying at a wriggling gopher, trying over and over again to find that one place to administer that killing bite. She was reminded of that right now.

  “I just came to bring him the food he ordered,” Britt said. Which was technically true.

  “Well, he’s still asleep. We were up all night. Just like old times.”

  This came with a misty smile and a picturesque tuck of her glorious hair behind her ear. Then she stretched, and the shirt she was wearing edged up ever so slightly. Revealing the tops of ivory hairless thighs and a peek of something lacy and fuchsia.

  Britt averted her eyes.

  “He’s so creative about finding ways to amuse himself when he’s away from Hollywood,” Rebecca added fondly. “He always did know how to fill his downtime.”

  “J. T. is pretty resourceful.” Britt said this tightly.

  But she was losing her grip on her bravado. Because she was new to whatever this nasty little game was, and she hadn’t slept at all last night, and Rebecca Corday—­Rebecca Freaking Corday, of all the people in the world!—­was clearly prepared to duel her to the death.

  Rebecca smiled sweetly.

  “I confess I was a little astonished by the condition of this cabin he bought. But then, he does love to fix . . . broken things.”

  WOW.

  Bull’s-­eye.

  Britt froze, as astonished as if she’d literally been shot.

  Some distant, minuscule part of her was impressed with how accurate and how ruthless that guess had been.

  She knew it was a guess. It had to be. If she knew anything at all about J. T., and she thought she did, she couldn’t imagine he would ever say a word about her to Rebecca.

  But then, she couldn’t imagine the J. T. she knew spending five years of his life with this spectacularly beautiful, uniquely horrible woman.

  She gawked speechlessly.

  Rebecca gave her a slow, sympathetic smile and
shrug. The silent implication being, Sorry kid, but you never had a chance against me.

  “Rebecca, who are you talk . . .”

  J. T. wandered out onto the deck.

  He was fully clothed. He wasn’t buttoning his jeans or mopping his brow or doing anything else that hinted that he might have just been ravished or had ravished Rebecca all night.

  That was no definitive proof that he hadn’t, however.

  His eyes were shadowed and red-­rimmed from lack of sleep and her heart both ached and exulted because it was probably her fault.

  When she saw him, the last vestiges of her bravado sifted away like so much dust and her knees nearly gave way. Because instantly, the world was in color again.

  She realized, with a shock, that he was her favorite person.

  But J. T.’s expression was hard and cold. It wasn’t an expression he’d ever turned on her before.

  If she had to guess, she would have said he was seething.

  “Your friend came by with some lunch for you,” Rebecca volunteered, sweetly, when it seemed no one would ever speak.

  “Delivery. From the Misty Cat.” Britt’s voice was shaking. She held up the bag, feeling like an idiot. “Glenn insisted I bring it,” she added pointedly.

  “Yeah? Good to know that someone had to force you to come see me, Britt.”

  Okay, then. He was definitely seething.

  And all that did was make Britt even angrier.

  His ex-­girlfriend was standing behind him in her panties, for God’s sake.

  “Could you give us a minute, Rebecca?” J. T. didn’t look at Rebecca at all when he said it.

  He addressed this to Britt as if he was afraid she’d dart away if he took his eyes off her.

  They stared each other down.

  For a moment it looked as though Rebecca intended to stay exactly where she was.

  And then she smiled beneficently, pivoted like a model reaching the end of a runway and glided back into the house, the tail of the shirt fluttering just above her microscopic buttocks.

  “And put something on your damn bottom half,” he called after her.

  If Britt knew Rebecca, and she thought she did, she expected that particular command would be ignored.

  Britt handed the white paper bag up to him.

  He barely looked at it. He set it aside on the little table.

  “Rebecca collects men’s dress shirts like pelts. The one she’s wearing was never mine,” he said shortly.

  “Yeah, I knew that. I’m pretty sure there’s no such thing as a dress T-­shirt, anyway.”

  It was a mild opening shot.

  “Why didn’t you call me back, Britt?” He lowered his voice.

  “Well, because I didn’t want to, J. T.,” she said tautly.

  His stomach tied itself into a trucker’s hitch.

  They stared each other down for a moment.

  “Let’s go for a walk. Down by the creek,” he said abruptly.

  She pivoted and stalked in that direction. He followed her swiftly down the steps and flanked her in a few strides.

  He went to reach for her hand, a reflex now. But she kept hers so adamantly close to her sides they might as well have been strapped there with bailing wire, and he felt like an ass.

  He holstered his hands in his pockets.

  They walked wordlessly a moment, tracing that path to the swimming hole, the last place he could remember being perfectly happy. Back in that brief interlude when he was delusional enough to think his life could be simple. Nothing was ever simple when it came to women.

  Their feet crunched pebbles and old fallen leaves and pine needles. And he reached up and dragged his finger idly through the leaves of a low-­hanging oak, as if it were a pet. Seeking comfort from anywhere.

  She skidded a little down the dirt bank toward the river. He didn’t offer her his hand again.

  And then he stopped.

  “Okay, Britt. I tried to tell you about a dozen times that I wasn’t expecting her to just show up like that.”

  “That was pretty clear from that very complicated expression on your face when you saw her.”

  “Yeah. I just bet it was complicated. Let me ask you something. How complicated is my expression right now?”

  They locked glares.

  She was a stubborn woman. But he probably had as much right to anger as she did at the moment.

  And she was smart enough to know it.

  “What is she doing here then, J. T.?”

  “She brought a script with her—­”

  “And about five years of shared history, right?”

  “Britt—­”

  “Shared naked history.”

  “Britt—­”

  “And Walmart does have cute clothes sometimes,” she said vehemently.

  “Sure, sure,” he soothed, startled.

  “I think she’s a mean person, J. T.”

  “You’re not wrong,” he confessed grimly.

  “And she stayed with you last night.”

  “There was apparently no place else for her to go. I slept on the couch. Britt.”

  “She wouldn’t fit on the couch. Her legs are about fourteen miles long. And there’s not much of a distance between the couch and your bed anyway, is there, J. T.? Just one or two strides on those long, long legs.”

  “Should I have sent her to the Shady Eight?”

  “Good God, no, she can’t stay there,” she said, startled. In all seriousness.

  “I would have stayed with you, Britt. And left her alone. Except for one word. DON’T.”

  He was aware of the sound of his breath and hers rushing, rushing. From anger, from fear.

  “You just don’t seem to get it, J. T. Your ex-­girlfriend is on bus benches and magazines and on a freaking billboard. She towers over Hellcat Canyon on that billboard like . . . like . . . that creepy sun baby in the Teletubbies. The whole town saw those pictures of us. And then she just appears, and yesterday I stood there like an ass and watched while everyone in the Misty Cat watched you get up out of your chair and drift on out of there after her, as if she was some kind of human tractor beam.”

  The image was both unflattering and priceless.

  “EX.” He growled that word and raked his fingers back through his hair in frustration. “Ex-­girlfriend! Rebecca’s whole goal in life has always been to take over the world. Her job is to tower over highways on billboards. I don’t see what that has to do with you and me. And if I wanted to be with her I’d be with her, right now, instead of out here having a great time arguing with you.”

  He thought, for a moment, she was almost tempted to smile.

  He seized the moment. “I love that you said ‘tractor beam.’ ” He said swiftly, gruffly. He loved all those odd little things she said.

  But she didn’t smile. “I think she wants you, though, J. T.”

  “That doesn’t mean she can have me. Rebecca always wants what she thinks other people have. She hunts down happiness like an anthropologist. And I must have looked happy to her in those photos. And I was. I am. Was. Am.”

  Hell.

  Britt quirked the corner of her mouth. “Gosh. Smooth, J. T.”

  He sighed. “Britt, my reflex was to just get her out of the Misty Cat. I had to get her out of there. It was a public service. All those jaws hanging open were bound to catch flies and Giorgio would have burned something and Glenn would have gotten the blame.”

  He’d hoped for a smile. She was determined not to give him one.

  “I’m sorry I went about it so awkwardly. It’s just . . . I didn’t want her anywhere near you, Britt,” he said. “Because I know all too well what she’s like. And now . . . so do you.”

  “She said you were up all night.” Her voice was thick now. Her eyes were shi
ning.

  Dear God. If Britt cried, his heart would snap in half with a report like a fired 22.

  He could just hear Rebecca’s insinuating voice saying that.

  “That’s what she does. She messed with your head. We were up most of the night about the script. And catching up on people we know, industry news, things like that.”

  “Sounds like a good time,” Britt said. Bitterly.

  “Well, it wasn’t a bad time. It was shop talk with a colleague. The worst part of the night was realizing the woman I’ve made love to every day for the past three weeks couldn’t be bothered to call me back.”

  Britt went still. He saw the guilt flicker over her features.

  He pressed his advantage. “Twelve phone calls and three apologies for something I really had no control over is my limit, Britt. You either believe me or you don’t. I’m not going to grovel. And I haven’t heard you apologize to me yet.”

  Her jaw dropped. “You want me to apologize to you?”

  “Common decency and three weeks of hot sex dictates you could have at least answered one of my calls. Do you think I can’t possibly have any feelings of my own, because my job is to have pretend ones?”

  Damn.

  He’d just argued himself right into a corner. Because he knew what the next question would be.

  They stared at each other in wary silence now.

  “All right, J. T.,” she said quietly. “What are your real feelings?”

  He crammed his hands into his pockets. Closing off, protecting himself.

  And he looked at her. Into her shining eyes, with the mauve shadows beneath them. And his chest tightened and he couldn’t breathe. And suddenly he was in that car sailing up the ramp and he didn’t know how he was going to land or if there was even a ramp and he couldn’t do it.

  “I like what we have going,” he said, finally. Quietly. “I don’t want it to end.”

  He knew immediately it was wholly inadequate.

  But then someone else had always written his words for him.

  “But wasn’t it always going to end, J. T.?”

  And suddenly his hands iced. “What do you mean?”

  “L.A., people like Rebecca, red carpets, movies—­that’s your real life. That’s where you belong. Not here Hellcat Canyon. This is . . . the dream you’re having during your downtime. Only I’m the hobby this time. We both got something out of it.”