Junk

by Komal Kant

  JUNK

  By Komal Kant

  Junk

  Copyright © 2018 Komal Kant

  First Edition

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes only. It cannot otherwise be circulated in any form of binding or cover than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, or any events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Cover Design by Eden Crane at www.edencranedesign.com

  DEDICATION

  For my husband,

  For being both supportive as hell and annoying as hell.

  This one’s for you.

  SWEATING PROFUSELY HADN’T BEEN IN the job description.

  It’s very glamorous, they said.

  Just a few interviews, they said.

  This could kick start your career, they said.

  A few hours in and I was quickly learning that the unglamorous parts of being a fresh-faced entertainment journalist for Entertainment Always had been conveniently left out when I’d first accepted the job. I’d been told that I’d be attending lavish parties and exclusive movie premieres and rubbing shoulders with Hollywood’s elite.

  Yes, technically I was still doing that, but not in the way I’d imagined.

  For example, here I was at the Chicago premiere of Sunsets on 12th Street, stuck in hundred-degree weather in a too big, tacky pantsuit I’d borrowed from my roommate, being jostled from all sides by sweaty reporters and cameramen who smelled just as bad as I did.

  Those deodorant commercials were lies. The smell from my armpits—not to mention the other crevices of my body—were enough to knock me out. Anti-perspiration my ass.

  Also, my camerawoman Norma Richards was about as amiable as a Brazilian wax. Seriously, I’d rather be best friends with sandpaper than be forced to make small talk with her for hours on end, as we camped alongside the red carpet.

  Still, I persevered.

  Now wasn’t the time to pass out from B.O. or dehydration. Not when privileged celebrities were beginning to roll up in their luxury vehicles, dressed like they were attending a fancy ball instead of a regular, ol’ theatre with uncomfortable chairs and sticky floors.

  But it was really only one celebrity we were waiting on.

  Harlen Walker.

  He was Hollywood’s current leading man, the star of Sunsets on 12th Street, slated to win an Oscar for Best Actor, and one-half of the hottest celebrity power-couple to exist since Brangelina, somewhat cheesily nicknamed ‘Harnelope’ by the media.

  Cheese aside, Harnelope was a current hot commodity in Hollywood. If I managed to get something, anything, from them or him, it would make me look really good in front of my boss. Reporters with no incentive or ambition didn’t get very far, and I wanted to go all the way.

  “HE’S HERE!”

  Pushing. Shoving. Crying. Screaming.

  All because of one human being. I knew I’d chosen this path for myself, but it still astounded me the lengths people went to for one glimpse, one captured image, one interview with a human we’d chosen to place on a pedestal.

  And as ridiculous as it was, I was one of those people.

  My eyes shot to the black limo that had just pulled up. The anticipation was making me sweat even more than I already was.

  Cameras flashed. Journalists jostled around me. And then the door opened and there he was.

  Tall, broad shouldered, chiseled jaw, and a handsome face that made millions of women—and men—swoon. Dressed in a form-fitting, tailored, navy suit, Harlen Walker was a sight for aching eyes.

  “Harlen! Over here! Harlen!”

  I was shoved violently to the side.

  “Harlen! Harlen!”

  He flashed a smile to some fans, waving at them, as they screamed and screamed.

  The crowd surged around me, and I was pushing and shoving just like everyone else. I needed this interview. I needed it to prove that I could do this job, that this was what I was meant to do.

  Harlen and his drop-dead gorgeous, supermodel wife, Penelope, were making their way down the line, sometimes passing certain reporters that had burned them in the past, but mostly stopping to give them the perfect sound bite.

  Before he reached me, I made eye contact with his publicist, a fierce looking woman with features so pinched it looked like a clothes pin was pulling her skin back. Botox was a scary thing.

  “Please,” I mouthed to her desperately.

  Her steely gaze locked with mine, and after a split second, she gave me a curt nod, guiding Harlen in my direction.

  My heart practically exploded with delight, and I flattened my perspired hair down, hoping I didn’t look like a hot mess in front of this hot non-mess.

  Harlen approached me with quick steps, his stunning wife trailing behind him, clad in a silver draped bustier dress. Her boobs were bursting from the seams, and I wondered if she could breathe.

  Shaking my head, I focused on the handsome man standing in front of me.

  This was it. The moment I’d been preparing myself for a week for. Precious seconds with Harlen Walker. I could do this. I could do-

  Then his smoldering cobalt gaze locked with mine, and I forgot everything about myself. I forgot my name. I forgot that I was there to do my job. I forget everything, because for a brief moment, I existed only in his eyes.

  Oh, my crap. He was gorgeous. Bright eyes, dark hair slicked back, the faintest line of stubble along his broad jaw, and cheekbones so pronounced that I almost reached out and stroked the side of his face.

  Thankfully, Norma chose that moment to swiftly kick me in the shin before one of his burly security guards tackled me.

  “Ow, oh!” I cried, remembering myself. “H-h-h-hi-Harlen. Th-thank you.”

  His expression was inscrutable as he nodded at me.

  “Uh-uh-uh-uh. I’m B-bbbbbear Fonzkkika from Entertainment Al-aways and uh…”

  Crap! Get it together, Blair! I wasn’t even saying real words!

  “Well, hey, Bear Fonzkicker.” He cocked a brow at me, and I swear, I melted. “Are you going to say anything or gape at me like a moron?”

  His words hit me in the chest at full force, and I could feel the flush rising on my cheeks.

  Had Hollywood’s beloved leading man just called me a moron? Who the hell did he think he was?

  Penelope laughed derisively from beside him, tossing her golden head of curls. “You can’t blame her for being star struck, darling.”

  Harlen’s mouth curled as he looked to his publicist. “I don’t have time for this, Mel.”

  His publicist rolled her eyes at me and touched his arm to move him along.

  And then Harlen was gone.

  Forever.

  My big break had just walked out of my life, sneering.

  “Shit, Blair,” Norma swore from behind me. “How the hell did you manage to let the biggest thing to ever happen to you walk away from you like that?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  Mainly because I didn’t have an answer for her.

  I had just royally screwed up the most important moment of my life.

  IT WAS A MIDWESTERN SUMMER’S nightmare.

  My phone was on the fritz.

  My hair was on the frizz.

  And I was about to knock out the hot, bearded man glowering at me.

  There he stood, all 6-feet of him—thick muscle, thi
ck beard, dark hair slicked back, and periwinkle blue eyes staring me down as though somehow it was my fault that my white, silk blouse was dripping with coffee that was darker than the depths of Hell.

  You could bet my mood was quickly joining it, too.

  This was not something I wanted to deal with after an eight-hour drive from Chicago through the most boring terrain I’d ever encountered. Now I was here in Middle-of-Nowhere, Wisconsin, also known as Pine Bluffs. Population five. Okay, fine, eight.

  The faded pink interior of Amy’s Place was mostly empty, aside from the jackass who’d bumped into me just as I was about to step outside. I’d pulled into a spot right in front of the old-school diner, desperate for some caffeine, and left my brother to guard the car.

  Then this had happened.

  “Y-you!” I gasped at him, unbuttoning my blouse with lightning fingers as the warm liquid seeped into my skin. “You did this!”

  Luckily, the coffee had been lukewarm at best or I’d be sporting second-degree burns right about now. Instead, I was sporting a second-degree mood swing.

  The bearded man’s eyes grazed against my body, following my fumbling movements. My skin flushed hot under his blue gaze, and I did my best to push away the spark of feelings that they ignited.

  “We both know you ran into me,” he shot back, narrowing his eyes at me. “Maybe you need to watch where yer going, lady.”

  The spell immediately broke. Thank God.

  “Excuse me?” I spluttered in disbelief. “Me watch where I’m going? Are you flipping insane?”

  “No, ma’am,” he said in an annoying drawl, “but you clearly are, huffing and puffing over a scrap of clothing.”

  Someone snorted in the background. It was this bearded hobo’s accomplice: a tall, good looking, dark skinned guy with a chest as broad as his shoulders.

  Seething with rage, I managed to pull off my blouse, revealing my white camisole underneath, which was also, of course, stained.

  “A scrap of clothing!” My head was pounding so hard I thought I was going to have an aneurysm. “Listen here, you corn husking hillbilly, I can see you know nothing about fashion.” I assessed him, taking in the torn blue jeans and the stained wife beater that peeked out from beneath his red flannel shirt. “This is Gucci. It’s very expensive. Now it’s stained and it’s your fault, so I don’t care how you do it, but I need my blouse replaced. Got it?”

  The bearded guy leaned down until his head was so close to mine that his dark beard brushed against my chin. His gaze pierced mine.

  I sucked in a sharp breath and fought the urge to take a step back.

  Oh, my. Those eyes were getting to me again…

  “Listen here, Miss Hoity Toity,” he said, adopting a tone similar to mine. “If you’re making such a big deal over a Goochee blouse, maybe you should stick to clothes that you can afford.”

  Oh, no he didn’t!

  “Don’t tell me what to do with my money!” I was so angry, I began wringing my delicate blouse in my hands in lieu of his neck, tiny droplets of coffee splashing across the distressed vinyl floor.

  “Well, I’m gonna tell you what I’m ‘bout to do with mine.” He straightened up, pulling out his wallet and brandishing a dollar bill at me, a gleam in his eyes. “Pay you for the trouble of stripping for me.”

  I gaped at him, trying to wrap my head around his words. Obviously, he was just as pissed at me as I was at him, but he’d gone too far.

  “YOU FUCKING CREEP!” I was at a loss for words. “I wasn’t, that’s not what, UGH!”

  Then, with nothing else to attack him with, I threw the only thing I had in my hands—my coffee-stained blouse.

  Unfazed, he caught it deftly with a hand. “Thanks for the rag, Goochee.”

  And then he was out of the door before I could say anything further or demand that he compensate me for my dry cleaning…

  My blouse.

  Oh, no.

  Shaking with anger, I flung open the door of the diner and rushed outside, but Bearded Jerk and his friend were already getting into the black pick-up truck that was parked next to my little red Toyota Corolla.

  “Hey! My blouse!” I ran in front of the truck, waving my arms at him like one of those giant, inflatable dolls in car dealership lots.

  Bearded Jerk gunned his engine and gave me a quick salute before backing out of his spot and speeding off down the road.

  Shaken, I stared after the truck in shock.

  I’d been in this stupid town for less than ten minutes and I’d already been robbed. What were the freaking odds of that happening?

  “I can’t believe I’m really in this backwoods place,” I fumed to myself, glancing around at the empty street. “With these backwoods people!”

  Bearded Jerk being at the top of that list.

  I’d wanted to leave the second I’d taken the exit onto the dirt road, the roused dust hovering behind me like ominous clouds. All I saw was green, green, and more green. Woods stretched as far as the eye could see, broken up by small lengths of houses and farm land.

  Not where I wanted to spend a part of my summer in.

  Sure, I’d been born here twenty-five years ago, but I’d only stuck around until I was nine, and my memories of Pine Bluffs and the people in it were practically non-existent. Nothing was familiar to me. Nobody knew who I was—and I was determined to keep it that way.

  “It’s only for a little while. It’s only for a little while,” I chanted under my breath, holding onto the knowledge that my stay here was temporary.

  With that mantra repeating in my mind, I glared at the settling dust, resolute in making it through this nightmare of an experience with my sanity intact.

  BEEEEEEEEEP.

  Startled out of my thoughts, I spun around to meet a familiar, annoying face peering back at me through the windshield of my car.

  It was my younger brother, Drew, who I’d been forced to drive to Pine Bluffs with since he’d been car-less for a year now after selling it to go on a spiritual pilgrimage to Kathmandu.

  With another furious glare in the direction of the now gone truck, I headed back to my car and threw the door open.

  “Did you have a quickie in the diner?” Drew asked in his serene tone, immediately noticing my lack of blouse.

  “That bearded guy stole it!” I cried, slamming my hand down on the steering wheel.

  “After your quickie?” he asked, shifting his bare feet which were propped up on the dashboard of my car.

  Gross.

  “I’m being serious.”

  Drew gave me a level stare before shrugging a shoulder. “I don’t know why you’d spend so much money on a piece of clothing. My spiritual teacher says that material possessions are immaterial in the next world.”

  Instead of responding, I gave my brother a once over. Drew wasn’t exactly a traditional person. He, himself, was wearing jeans with holes in it and a shirt with, well, holes in it too. He had hair as black as mine and almost as long, except his looked like it hadn’t been washed in a year. Probably because it hadn’t.

  My parents said his look was a part of his image as an artist who was still discovering himself. I thought his look was part of his image as a twenty-year-old who lived at home with his parents and ate all their food.

  Our eye color was about the only physical thing we didn’t have in common. Drew’s were a dark brown like our Sri Lankan dad’s; mine were a colorful hazel like our European mom’s. Aside from that, we both had dark tan skin and were an average height—Drew about three inches taller than me at 5’8”—with slender frames, although my hips and butt had some weight to them.

  “I’m about to send you onto the next world in a second if you don’t quit it.” I put the car in reverse and backed out onto the street a little too aggressively.

  “I’m not the one crying over a blouse,” he said in the stupid, wise voice he’d adopted upon his return from Kathmandu. “For tears spilled over the cloths of the…”

  Uggghhhrrr
.

  Between the Bearded Jerk, my annoying brother, and being back in Pine Bluffs, my day was going down as one of the worst in history. If I could just make it to our destination without killing anyone, it would be a freaking miracle.

  Yet, even as I sped down the desolate street, the gleaming blue eyes of that Bearded Jerk continued to linger in my thoughts and I knew if I ever ran into him again, he would have Hell to pay.

  Jackass.

  The sight of her angry face disappearing in the rearview mirror was the last thing I saw.

  With a start, I realized I was still holding onto her stained Goochee—Gucci, whatever—blouse.

  Well, shit. If she wasn’t so damn uppity, I’d do the decent thing and turn around so I could give it back to her.

  Being twenty-eight-years-old and seeing the shit I’d seen, I thought I’d seen it all. Then I’d met my fucking nightmare. The very least she could’ve done was admit she’d spilled her damn coffee all over me. Maybe I wasn’t wearing some ridiculously expensive shirt, but whatever happened to good, ol’ manners?

  That girl was trouble. I could sense it from a mile away. Something about her stirred a feeling in me; familiar yet distant. Whatever it was, she wasn’t good news.

  “Who do you ‘spose she was, Wade?” Harris asked from beside me. “Tourist, maybe?”

  Harris Rowe and I had been friends since we were in diapers. There was an easiness between us, none of that fake bullshit I’d gone through with other people.

  When I was high on life and too full of myself, he tried to talk me down. When he was worried about leaving his shitfest five-year relationship behind, I helped him walk away.

  Not everyone in my life had good intentions. Most used me, but Harris wasn’t one of them.

  “Could be,” I said with a shrug of a shoulder. “Good thing if she is because that means she ain’t sticking around.”

  The town rarely got tourists. We were too far out in the middle of the state to be of much interest to sight-seers. We kinda liked it that way. Left alone to our own devices, free to roam the land with no one breathing down our necks.