Arlen looks straight at me. “I know,” he confirms.
“But if you have kids, how can you not need more money? College, alone—”
“I'm fine, Lola. They're fine. I've got savings. And even so, their other—father—pays for everything.”
Hmmm. Not their stepfather or my ex-wife's new husband. Is it too painful to think of the man who's replaced him? Did his wife leave him for this other man? Is this the heartbreak I see in those eyes of his? The loss I hear whenever I replay his audition tape? Desolation over a woman can be very tricky. I've got to figure out how to spin this.
“You look like you're thinking awfully hard, Miss Nosy.”
I gasp in protest. “I—”
“My turn,” he says, bulldozing right over me. “Ever been married?”
“No,” I decide to answer.
“Engaged?”
“Once I had a boyfriend who proposed,” I offer.
Arlen looks at me. “And?”
“And nothing.”
“What did you say?”
I take a deep breath and put my elbows on the table. “I said, 'How dare you propose to another woman when we've been together for six months.'”
Arlen sits back and crumples the paper that had wrapped up his sandwich. “I don't want to play this game any more.”
Chapter 17
LOLA
Click...click click click clickclickclicketyclickclick.
It sounds so rhythmic, so right. I type faster and faster, gliding along the melody as the words tumble out of me like those characters that gushed out of the book in the opening of the ABC Weekend Special way back when. Ah, those were the days. Gosh, I really liked that one about Miss Switch. Man, if only I had secret powers. Well, I kind of do. But to have a flying broom!
“Hey—”
“YOW!”
I push back in my chair so hard I have to grab the desk to keep from toppling over when I bank sharply against the edge of the braided rug behind me. I steady myself, breathing hard. I look up to the open window in front of me. “Jesus fuck, Arlen, are you trying to Diabolique me to death?!”
“I am neither a cheating bastard nor a murderer.”
I look at him, narrowing my eyes like Lady Catherine does when faced with Lizzy's sauciness. Okay, so Arlen's seen Diabolique. Would Sam have seen it? No way. Well, maybe. Like, if he'd been forced to see it in French class in high school. “Okay,” I say, breathing a sigh of relief. “Good. You went to high school, right?”
“What?”
“I could ask you the same thing. What? As in, what the hell?” He's peering in my window … my window on the second floor. “Are you, like, floating? Like a vampire?”
“Lola, I'm standing on the roof. And I'm guessing you've been at it all night.”
I look around. Shit, it's light out. Dawn must be breaking. “Act II of the pilot needed some tweaking.” I look at him. Damn, the guy looks really good when he's clean, too. He is just so perfect. Sam Sam Sam Sam Sam. “Speaking of … what on earth are you doing here so early?”
“Speaking of what? I got here on time. Been here forty minutes already.”
“What?!” My eyes search frantically until they lock in on the time in the corner of my computer screen. “Holy Mother of God! I am going to be so late.”
“For what?”
“For work!”
“I know, but I mean, you're the boss. Any meetings you're going to miss?”
“I have to be there.”
“Really?” he says on a laugh. “Do you have any idea what you look like right now?”
“Hey!”
“Ever seen Young Einstein? Or Young Frankenstein, for that matter? Your 'do is a bit Gene Wilder right now.”
My hands fly to my hair to pull it back, but I don't have a scrunchy, so I just hold my messy hair in a ponytail at the back of my head.
“And I haven't seen eyes as red as yours since my pot days in college.”
“So you did go to high school!” I crow with jubilation.
Arlen climbs through the window. “That's it,” he says. “I don't smell any pot. Don't see any drug paraphernalia. No booze. You are blitzed out on lack of sleep. You are so not getting into a car right now and driving to the studio. You need to get in bed.”
“I'm way too wired to sleep,” I insist, spinning around in my chair. Giggles float out of me like so many bubbles out of a wand you blow through. “And I have a million things to do. I am the boss, you know.”
“You're right,” he concedes. “You know what you're about.”
Ha! I still got it. Even on no sleep, I could command a battalion of break-dancers.
“But you must be stiff and creaky after sitting up all night,” he reasons, moving behind my chair and knocking my arm away from my hair.
And then I feel his hands on my shoulders. Oh, God, that feels sooooo gooood.
“Just give me a sec,” he says, kneading into my neck muscles with his fingers. “I'll get you loosened up, then you'll be good to go.”
“Mmmmm,” I say, melting under his touch. “Just don't do that karate chop thing.”
I drop my head forward—and he runs his fingers up into my hair and massages the base of my skull. Oh, yes. My Sam should be good with his hands … this is all so right.
Chapter 18
ARLEN
Arlen peered around at Lola as she slipped into sleep, her chin practically bouncing off her collarbone. He cracked his knuckles. He knew she was blissfully unaware of him—he did. Just like he knew that her lack of consciousness should make the next part easy.
“Huh,” he grunted.
But no way was he going to pick her up and carry her all the way down to the other end of the hallway to her bedroom. He was just not going to do it. He surveyed the room then nodded, bending down to peel back the braided rug. Then as carefully as he could manage, he started to wheel Lola in her chair through the upstairs of her house. He felt a bit creepy, though, like he was pushing a wheelchair. But it wasn't the wheelchair that made him feel creepy. It was that the person in the wheelchair was so zonked that she was all but passed out. And who the hell would wheel around someone comatose? For what reason? It just felt creepy.
So Arlen stopped the chair at the doorway to the office, took a deep breath, and lifted Lola out of the chair.
“Grh.” Arlen hefted her, getting a better hold. She was no waif, that was for sure. He headed down the hallway, striding as fast as he could. He told himself to stop thinking about how much she might weigh. Or about her thighs. He definitely should not be thinking about those. When he got into her bedroom he stopped so short he almost dropped her. The bed was neatly made. She was so freaking busy but she had time to make her bed? What the hell? There was no way he was going to peel back the covers and then tuck her in. No way.
Closing his eyes as if he were a kid watching Texas Chainsaw Massacre, he deposited her on top of the bed. But as he tried to extricate his arms from underneath her body—from under her thighs, in fact—Lola came to life. Before he could react or explain, she grabbed the front of his T-shirt and pulled him into a kiss.
Her lips were hungry and wet, and wildly intent on sucking him under. When he felt her tongue touch his, Arlen tore away from her. Reeling back, he stumbled right out the open door. He caught himself by grabbing on to either side of the doorjamb. He stood there, breathing hard, trying to get a grip. But not Lola. Nope. Across the room, she was sleeping peacefully, curled into a ball.
“What the fuck!” And Arlen didn't use his inside voice.
But she didn't stir.
Arlen walked back into the room and around to the far side of the bed. He grabbed the end of the butter yellow comforter and folded the half of the duvet she wasn't lying on over her, wrapping her up like a taco.
Satisfied with a job well done, he left her room, shutting the door behind him. He hightailed it down to the kitchen, and in one smooth motion, he went to the sink, turned on the tap, and stuck his head under
a blast of cold water. When he was good and soaked, Arlen leaned back against the kitchen counter, letting icy streams run into his eyes and collar.
Damn Lola. Damn damn damn damn damn. There were so many things in Arlen's life that he was trying not to feel, and now Lola had to go and kiss him in her sleep. Now he had to pretend that he didn't want her, not one little bit.
It wasn't getting easier, all the pretending. It all began with his pretending that he didn't see how Rachel still felt about Jon. Was that his biggest, dumbest mistake? But how could it have been? He'd already loved the kids so much by then. So much. And then he'd had to pretend life could go on without them. And now Lola on top of everything else, for fuck's sake.
But wait.
Wait one fucking second.
Why did he have to pretend? Lola was a driven Hollywood writer who was committed to the success of her show. Just looking at her house made it clear she wasn't structuring her life around any future plans that involved a partner or a family. She'd invested a great deal of money to fix up her house so every room snugly fit her single, active, workaholic lifestyle. Lola Scott was exactly perfect for not getting tangled up with. So, if he wanted her, and if she wanted him back ...
Arlen stuck his head back under the faucet.
Chapter 19
LOLA
My eyes open and all I see is yellow. Yellow?
Suddenly I bolt into a sitting position. The light is all wrong. It's too bright, too solid. I should not still be in bed.
I look at the clock. ELEVEN?!
I scramble to get out of bed but I'm all tangled in my comforter. What? I take a deep breath and take stock. Why am I fully dressed in yesterday's clothes, wrapped up in my comforter as if someone were trying to dispose of my body?
Okay, writing through the night … I remember that. I nailed Act II. Finally. But then—shit, had Arlen been here? Was he outside my office window? Holy hell, what had I said to him? Good God. I better not have spilled the beans about his playing Sam. Not yet. Oh, what had I said? I can't remember. But I am pretty sure I saw him before I came in here and conked out.
I fall back onto my soft comforter, sinking into its folds. God, it feels good to just lie here. If only I had that kind of time, just for a day … I nestle myself more deeply into the luxuriant bedding and just let my mind drift.
I remember … I think I remember …
“Aaaah!” I roll onto my stomach and bury my face into the bed. “No, no, no, no,” I yell into the mattress.
I … I … I think I kissed Arlen. Kissed Arlen. On the mouth! I lift my head. Or maybe I just dreamed it. But that's still bad! I wasn't dreaming about Wendy's character Celeste kissing Sam—no, it was definitely me kissing Arlen. He felt so warm and right as I pulled his weight on top of me. And the taste of him—
Oh, God. Can you tell how something feels in a dream? Or how it tastes? I grab my phone out of my pocket and ask Google whether you can dream the taste of something. A quick scan tells me lots of sites claim that you can. Oh, no! One site says if you can imagine the taste while you're awake then you can probably dream it. But I know I've never imagined how Sam, let alone how Arlen, would taste! Sure, I kissed him during the audition, but that was work! I wasn't paying attention. Was I? No—I am not going to think about the audition kiss, and especially not how it felt or tasted. All that matters is how it looked, and it looked good enough to save the damn show.
And that's all that matters. The show. Nothing about real life kisses and how they feel or could feel … No! None of that mattered.
Twenty minutes later, after showering and dressing in clean clothes, I stand in the entry hall, looking at the front door. The Tesla beckons me. The studio awaits. I have to leave. There is nothing left to do here and I have a fuller-than-Jane-Russell's-figure kind of day. Clutching my car keys, I grab onto the front door knob. Arlen is out there. Somewhere. Damn! If I kissed him, in my bed, our relationship is now tainted by the indelible hint of sex. That first audition kiss—work. Easily rationalized away. But the maybe kiss this morning, upstairs … Damn damn damn damn damn! Sex could NOT enter into these negotiations! It would be dicey enough getting Arlen to play Sam without making him think he was on some blasted casting couch.
I have to fix this. NOW.
Charging out the front door, I hunt for Arlen. Not that I have to look far and wide. He's standing in the wide open garage looking through his array of tools.
“Starting on the exercise room floor today?” I'm doing my best to act all casual, but Arlen doesn't look up at me when I enter, and I know that's a bad sign. Fuck fuck fuck I totally must have kissed him! I laugh. “I have to come up with a better name for that room.”
“How 'bout 'the gym.'” Arlen is still busy ferreting through the tools.
“Right,” I say, feeling just too dorky to live. “Well, I'm off.”
“Okay.” He picks up a tape measure and unfurls it—like, in case it isn't really a tape measure, or something.
“And thanks,” I add, “for earlier.”
The tape snaps in.
Arlen finally looks at me. “No problem.”
He gives me an easy smile then, making me almost sob with relief. Everything's okay. Right? Damn it! I have to make sure.
“I, uh,” I flounder. “I don't really remember much. Did you wrap me up or did I just dream I was a pig-in-the-blanket or something?”
“It was me,” he admits, shrugging. “Sorry. I know dumping my employer in bed is a little weird, but you were zonked out and threatening to get in your car and drive to the studio.”
Dumping? He dumped me in bed?
“Well, thanks. I gotta get to work.”
“Okay.”
“Okay,” I confirm. I turn around and head out to my car. In three paces, I turn back. “Okay,” I blurt. “Did I kiss you this morning?”
Arlen looks perfectly innocent. “No.”
“Are you lying?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, jeez! I'm sorry, Arlen! Really, really sorry! I didn't mean—mean, I didn't mean—”
“I didn't think you meant anything,” he says placidly. “You were asleep.”
I stop. Man, I am losing it. I need to HANDLE this. I pull myself together and nod briskly. “Right. Thanks, Arlen.”
By the time I pull into my space in the studio lot, I am LIVID with myself. In the garage I behaved like a complete flibbertigibbet while Arlen had remained as cool as a raspberry-kiwi smoothie. I storm into the building. I kissed the guy and he acted like it was no big deal. And it wasn't. But why was he acting like it wasn't? “Whatever that's supposed to mean!”
“Whatever what's supposed to mean?”
I jump when I notice Ray sitting exactly where he should be sitting. I have to get a grip. Ray would never go around telling people I was coming unglued, but ...
But I do not want to be coming unglued!
“Nothing,” I say, shrugging. “I'm an idiot, that's all. Any messages?”
He hands me a stack. “Want me to order you a pizza?”
His offer makes we want to start skipping. “Okay,” I say, noticing the playing cards lining his computer screen. “I mean, if you can tear yourself away from your super important project.”
“Please. Fridays are deadly when we're not in production.”
“Take a long lunch. When you get back, we'll … look over the kids' contracts,” I decide. “As long as you order the pizza first.”
I close myself into my office. Two of the messages are from Tom. First he wants to know when I am going to sign Arlen, and in the next message, he demands that Arlen be signed by the end of business today.
Whatever. I'll get Arlen by Sunday at the latest. Tom can't fire me between the end of Friday and the beginning of the day Monday—no human resources available to process the paperwork. And if he decides to fire me over the weekend, I will have Arlen by Monday morning, and that's all he wants.
I still don't know what I'm going to do to get Arlen, but
this is when I'm at my best—when my back is to the wall and a show is on the line. I have until the table read on Monday. Tom can huff and puff all he wants until then.
Chapter 20
ARLEN
“So, do you have a girlfriend?”
“What?” Arlen almost dropped the phone. He looked out his truck window, all the way back up the slope to where he could catch a glimpse of the roof of Lola's cursed house. He thought talking to the kids after his insanely off-kilter morning with Lola would put him back on an even keel, but no. Hell, no, in fact.
Girlfriend? Had his irrepressible thoughts of Lola somehow pulsated through the phone? If so, they'd been received loud and clear by Katie. Damn. Sixteen, and sharp as a crocodile tooth.
Arlen did not want to discuss Lola with Katie. Or with anybody. And anyway, Lola was NOT his girlfriend. “Why would you think I was hiding a girlfriend from you?”
“Well,” Katie reasoned, “you're still a pretty young guy.”
“Thanks.”
“Anyway,” she barreled on, “I was telling Mary Lou about you, about all of us, really, and about how we're coming to see you.”
“Mary Lou,” Arlen mused. “The trumpet player who just moved to your school?”
“Yeah,” Katie said. “I guess we kind of hit it off because she's the only girl trumpet player and I'm the only girl sax.”
Arlen was thrilled to hear that Katie felt close enough to someone to spill her story. But what a story. Arlen didn't even want to think about what it must sound like to someone who hadn't lived it.
“She asked about your girlfriend,” Katie continued. “And I told her you didn't have one, and that you never have. Not since Mom. And she said you probably did, but that you shooed her away when we showed up.”
Arlen sighed. The world according to Mary Lou. “I bet you're going to miss her this summer.”
“She's going to Europe with her parents,” Katie explained. “They invited me, can you believe it? But I said no way. I mean, I was really polite and grateful and everything. But that's when I told her all about you and us.” Katie's voice got quiet. “So what about your girlfriend?”
Queen of the Universe (In Love in the Limelight Book 2) Page 6