Anyone but Him

by Cassie Graham

  I know I have no future with him. I’m not naïve enough to think he’s anything but fun. Sure, I’m twenty-four, making me a year older than him, but I’m by no means thinking anything serious will come out of our little escapade. The past two months have been a nice change of scenery in my life. He brought a little fun—for lack of a better word, into my life.

  Before Lark, I was a bit in my own world. I went to school, I came home, I studied, and I went to bed. I didn’t deter much from my routine.

  Lately though, I’ve been getting the sneaky suspicion that he wants to get more serious. Summer is coming fast and he asked me to come home with him to meet his parents but I dismissed his question with my mouth, earning me some extra time. I don’t know if I’ll get that lucky next time he asks.

  Thankfully, I have a few more months left before I really have to worry about that.

  “Dammit, Whit,” Holli huffs, standing in front of me. I didn’t hear her approach.

  I snap my head up, and pull my sunglasses from my head and slide them on.

  “I’m sorry, what?” I ask. She had interrupted my inner dialogue, and I have no idea what she said.

  “Greg needs me to go to the sound stage right now. Some big news about the show.” She sits next to me and her lip trills. “I’m sorry to bail on you.”

  I put my head on her shoulder and laugh. “It’s okay. You’re a star now. I have to accept it.” The smile in my voice is evident.

  She raises her shoulder, and laughs. “You’re not angry?”

  I lift my head, looking at her flawless face. Even in the warm spring air, she still looks like she just walked out of a magazine.

  “Oh, I’m definitely angry.” I roll my eyes. “This is your job, Holls. I get it.” I pull her arm. “Up. Go. I’ll be fine. I’ll catch a cab home.”

  She punches numbers on her phone, and a car almost instantly pulls up to the curb. She has a car service, courtesy of the show, but she hardly ever uses it.

  “Okay. You going to go get shoes?”

  I shake my head. “Nah, I’ll just go home.”

  She gives me a smirk. “Hey, look on the bright side. I just saved you some money. Now you can go home, and not spend a cent.”

  I tilt my head back and laugh. “Ha! The cab fare in this city will cost me just as much. Plus, I’m going to throw these bitches away as soon as I get home,” I say, pointing to my feet.

  The driver steps out of the car and approaches Holli. She waves, and turns back to me when he opens the door for her. “You’re such a liar. You’ll keep those shoes forever. You’re a damn hoarder.”

  She’s right, but she’s just as guilty.

  “Oh please, you act like you don’t have hundreds of shoes,” I bite back.

  We have a room dedicated to shoes in our three-bedroom home. Shoe Heaven, as we like to call it. I guarantee she has more shoes than I do. Thank God we have the same size feet.

  “Hey!” she exclaims as she ducks into the deep tinted town car. “It’s not my fault designers find my feet fan-fucking-tabulously amazing, and want to donate to the cause.” She lifts her foot into the window, looking like a contortionist, showing her foot. “These feet are gold, baby! Gold!”

  I shake my head and giggle. “You’re bonkers, Holliwood.”

  She gives me a little wave, blows a kiss and the car pulls away from the curb, leaving me.

  I take a deep breath.

  I’m in the middle of the city, alone. The streets are deserted, and I look to my left, then to my right. Nothing.

  Where is everyone?

  I decide to spare my feet and call a cab since they all seem to be elsewhere and hailing one on the street is pointless.

  Ten minutes later, a cab pulls up and I walk to the back passenger door. The second I sit in the cracked, weathered leather seat, I cough. I must have summoned the most potent cab driver in all of L.A. I’ve never smelled anything like this particular man before. Burnt eggs and body odor are the first two aromas that assault my nostrils, then something else I can’t place. Pine-sol, maybe? I discreetly cover my nose, and look around the cab. A pine tree car freshener hangs from the rear view mirror.

  Bingo.

  Sadly, it isn’t doing its job.

  Fail, air freshener. Fail.

  I mutter my address through my hand and the cabbie acknowledges me while putting it into the GPS.

  When the robotic voice echoes through the cab, I lean my elbow on the armrest and close my eyes, willing my nose to somehow turn off so I can survive this car ride without vomiting.

  Rolling down the manual window, I take slow clean breaths. We’re about a mile from the Santa Monica Freeway, and I look to my left. The arena is bursting at the seams with people.

  I forgot there’s a version of ComicCon in town this weekend. Big shot actors are in town for the convention. Anyone who’s anyone is scheduled to attend. I’m almost positive Holli has an appearance tomorrow at noon for panel.

  Fans of the show congregate in a giant hall to stand in line and ask the actors questions. It’s a kind of a big deal—I guess. I’ve never attended, but it seems like it might be fun.

  The cabbie blares the horn, and I shift my head to the front of the car.

  A gaggle of girls scream and run toward the cab, and the cabbie grumbles under his breath.

  Before I know what’s happening, the passenger door on my opposite flies open, and someone bursts into the cab, sitting mere inches from me.

  “Please, just drive,” the man pleads with his hands on his face.

  I move my body away from him. I have no idea who this man is. Although, his pleading makes it a little difficult to believe he’d do anything harmful to me.

  Girls and grown women surround the car, beating and pounding on the windows. Screaming in octaves that make my ears bellow for help.

  Forgoing giving the mystery mans space, I move away from the window thinking they might possibly break it.

  Who the hell is this guy? They’re going nuts.

  He mutters curse words into his hands, and the cabbie yells in another language.

  What the fuck is going on right now?

  I cover my ears to drown out the screaming and look to my left. The man still has his face buried in his big hands and I pull my ass to the edge of the seat.

  “Let’s get out of here!” I shout over the wailing going on outside.

  Mr. Cabbie looks at me in the rearview mirror. “I’m trying, Miss.” His thick accent places him from somewhere in Mexico. “But they won’t move.”

  I sigh in frustration. “Start inching forward, and they’ll move.” I say that, but I could be completely wrong. It’s probably bullshit. I have no idea what these crazed women are thinking. They look strung out. It’s kind of scary.

  “Not likely,” whispers the mystery man.

  I look to him, and even though I can’t see him, my heart aches at the sadness lacing his words. He sounds scared…fearful.

  We begin moving forward, and the women commence banging on the hood of the cab, the side of the doors and a few hop onto the trunk attempting to break the glass. The cab stops again. I unintentionally move closer to the man, and he slips his arm around my shoulders, almost shielding me. Putting my head between my legs, I close my eyes and pray that we get out of here somehow.

  The horn honks again and the thunderous whacking begins to quiet. One after another, the women are pulled away from the car. The man and I both shift to look out the window, weary.

  The entire intersection has closed down, and police cars surround the cab. With guns in hand, the police yell into a bullhorn. With emotions ranging from frightened to angry, the women move away from the cab.

  “About damn time,” I mumble.

  The man looks to me with a slight grin on his face, and my breath hitches when I realize who he is.

  Jennings Cohen, the famous movie star, is sitting next to me in the smelliest cab in California. Perfect.

  Dark blonde hair and bright eyes,
he’s breathtaking. Even more so now that he’s flushed and flustered.

  He seems real—human. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a beautiful man up close.

  His worried expression makes me quiet my accelerated heartbeat and take a deep breath.

  It’s not like I haven’t met famous people before. Living in L.A. and having a best friend who’s an actress has its up-sides. I’ve hung out on set many times.

  But Jennings is a bonafide, über famous actor.

  He won an Oscar last year and is supposedly going to star in the new Samuel Masterson film that’s already generating major buzz.

  At twenty-five, he’s become the talk of the town. There isn’t a director on Earth who doesn’t want to work with him.

  Jennings just has that something. It’s that thing, the one that can’t really be described. It’s an experience to watch him. He has magnetism that screams from the screen. His persona demands attention. All he has to do is quirk that eyebrow and smirk and the world falls at his feet.

  Then there’s this other thing that makes him famous.

  He’s also recognized for being a complete asshat. Super playboy and a womanizer, he’s the epitome of bad boy. The world can’t get enough of him. He’s on top of the world.

  He’s also stuck in a rank cab with me.

  Ironic.

  Poor guy.

  His eyes go wide, practically begging me to not go all fangirl on him.

  He’s lucky I’m not new to this.

  I compose myself and stick my hand out as the cab lurches forward. “Hi.”

  He breathes a sigh of relief. “Hi.”

  I move back to my seat and click the seatbelt. We’re emerging onto the Santa Monica Freeway and I’m sure as hell not going to step foot on that thing without some sort of restraint.

  I hate freeways.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I offer.

  That sounded stupid in my head. Routine. Mundane. Dull. But, I guess…what the hell else am I supposed to say? ‘Oh hi, you’re beyond gorgeous, I’ve watched all of your movies. Can you sign my boob?’

  Hell no.

  Jennings drags his hands through his thick hair, causing a few to stick up in different directions. It shouts just-fucked and I have to divert my eyes.

  You have a boyfriend, you whore. Quit looking at like at him like you want to eat him. And hello, reminder: he’s a playboy jackhole. Keep it in perspective!

  He gives a humorless laugh. “Sure it is” he says, sarcastic. “I hijacked your cab. I’m surprised you haven’t pushed me out onto the I-10 yet.”

  My body seems to calm down and I look out my window. “There are worse things that could happen. Having Jennings Cohen jump into my cab is a good day in my book.”

  “You don’t seem crazy,” he states, matter of factly, and then blushes. “Uhh, shit, that came out wrong. I just meant—,” he trails off, looking apprehensive. “I just meant most of my fans are crazy maniacs. You seem—nice. Ordinary.”

  The cabbie swerves in between two semi trucks and I clutch the door. “Thanks. I think?”

  Is ordinary good?

  He groans, “I’m an asshole. I didn’t mean that because you know who I am you’re automatically a crazy. That doesn’t say much about me, if I think that. It just—as you can see. My life is a little crazy right now. Did I say I’m sorry?”

  I can’t hide my smile. I shake my head.

  “I’m sorry. Really. That was madness. I’ve never come that close to seeing fans straight up lose it.”

  A car passes us, flipping the cab driver off and I squinch my eyes shut tight, breathing through my possible panic attack. “What exactly happened? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  I hear him let big amount of air out of his nose, and I peek at him though my lashes. He’s got his fingers moving in circles on his temples, massaging them, trying to alleviate the stress, probably.

  “I decided to slip out the back after panel, and I guess someone saw me.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to have security or something?”

  I know for a fact when Holli’s show is on air, she has to have them around constantly. She can’t go anywhere without being recognized.

  It can get scary at times. I can only imagine how it is for Jennings. He’s famous times a hundred.

  He looks like he’s disgusted with himself.

  “I’m an idiot. I figured I could get out, grab a cab and go home. I didn’t think someone would send out a mass text message of my whereabouts.” He cracks his knuckles, and my eyes travel to the popping sound. You’d think a hoity-toity celebrity like Jennings would have fresh manicured hands, but his look like worker’s hands. Strong, and slightly cracked, maybe even a little calloused. It’s kind of hot to see that he isn’t like some of the other male celebrities I’ve met. Most are afraid to break a nail.

  Deliberately, I let my eyes travel the length of his body. I’m guessing he’s at least six feet tall. Give a few inches. No take. He’s got black motorcycle boots on, and dark worn jeans that seem to fit him perfectly. Not that I can truly tell with him sitting down, but sweet Lord, I have to lick my lips to bring the moisture back into them. His crisp white t-shirt is pressed on the sleeves, and causes me to notice his round muscled biceps. The veins coil and slide down his arm.

  When my eyes find his, he’s openly grinning.

  I’m gawking.

  Fuck. Shit. Dammit.

  Clearing my throat, I look into his eyes. The crystal clear blue shines with mischievousness, and find myself trying to memorize the color. If I had to link the color to anything, I’d think the clearest blue ocean water that you’ve ever seen, might be a slight comparison. Although, if I’m being honest with myself, even the most beautiful ocean couldn’t come close.

  His full lips twitch, the bottom one is slightly more plump than the other, making him look all kinds of dangerous.

  Shit. I’m gawking again.

  I need to get it together.

  I clear my throat. “Uhh—how did you get all the way to the freeway? It has to be at least a mile from the arena.”

  He shrugs his shoulders, but looks intently into my eyes, learning them, assessing them. I should turn away. I should be uncomfortable that a random man is evaluating my face, judging me, but I can’t force myself to look anywhere but him. The look on his face conveys something pleasurable. Curious, and a little entertained.

  Why is that?

  I’m a stupid, stupid woman for caring.

  “I was trying to blend in,” he cuts into my thoughts. “And find a cab, but when someone spotted me, I hauled ass to get away. I told you, I’m an idiot.”

  He flashes me that smile that causes millions of panties to drop.

  He’s insanely charming.

  Fascinating.

  Alarming. And I don’t like the feelings swirling through my head and heart right now.

  Not swooning is becoming a very difficult task.

  My internal struggle is having a tug of war in my body. The man sitting next to me doesn’t look like the douchebag I’ve seen on TV. He looks average. Lovely, even.

  “Well, Jennings, you picked the right cab. It’s just—“ I shudder slightly, recalling the past thirty minutes. “I know it’s ridiculous for me to say it, but I’m sorry. Those girls—I don’t understand their thinking.”

  His emotions soften, and he reaches for my hand, catching me by surprise. As soon as his skin touches mine, static zooms in its wake.

  Well, that’s a new feeling.

  He squeezes it once and returns his hand to his lap.

  Jesus, Whit, don’t get excited about a little touch from a man. Lord have mercy.

  He looks to his hands in his lap, then slides his eyes toward mine. “I didn’t catch your name.”

  I give him a smirk that I like to think has an effect on men. “You didn’t ask.”

  He pulls at the seatbelt across his chest, and lets out a masculine laugh. “Touché, Cab Girl.”

  Anot
her blare of the horn and I look to his eyes, letting his look calm me. “It’s Whit.”

  What the hell is wrong with me? He’s a complete stranger. Why am I letting him have such an effect on me?

  It’s just; I haven’t felt any sort of connection with anyone in years. Not even Lark.

  Shit, Lark.

  “Whit,” he says my name, letting it fall out of his mouth, sounding all sexual-like. “Whit. As in Whitney?”

  I shake my head. “No, it’s short for Whitley. Whitley Hayes.”

  His eyes shine and a smile appears on his face.

  I can’t help it, I study his features. He’s biting that bottom lip, the same one that begs to be kissed. How he can smile and bite his lip at the same time is a complete mystery to me. Must be the immeasurable amount of time in front of the camera, perfecting different looks. The dimple on his right cheek makes itself known. His two front teeth overlap in just the slightest, making his striking features more profound.

  His tiny imperfections make him striking.

  I want to take a mental picture of his expression. The anxious, almost frightened person that jumped into my cab has disappeared, and a lively, gentle looking man has taken his place.

  I catch myself craving to explore him. The real him. Whoever he is.

  If I’m being honest with myself, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to discover all sides of Jennings. It’s so easy to see why he has so much charisma on the screen.

  I’m at a loss to who he really is.

  Asshole or nice guy? Asshole or nice guy?

  Who are you, Jennings Cohen?

  “That’s a beautiful name, Whitley Hayes. It’s very nice to meet you.”

  The Santa Monica Freeway turns into Pacific Coast Freeway, which means we’re getting closer to Malibu.

  Thank God, it’s almost time to get off of this death highway.

  “I’m glad to meet you too, Jennings.”

  He looks a little worried when I look to him again.

  “Look, I don’t want this to come off rude, but how the hell are you so calm meeting me?” he asks, a little scared of my answer.