Book Boyfriends Cafe Summer Lovin' Anthology 2015

by Melinda Curtis

  “I mean, she’s gotten better.” Normally, Gemma didn’t soften her opinions. But times were changing.

  Her godfather, Dooley Rule, had given her a college fund when she turned eighteen, along with a part-time contract with a generous salary if she worked at the Foundation. All she had to do was stay in school, get good grades, and wear army boots every day.

  The boots she’d gotten used to, but she was graduating from UCLA this semester. The Foundation’s lawyer had put her on notice. Soon, her contract would expire and Amber could adjust her salary downward or fire her. So far, Gemma’s resume hadn’t landed her any job interviews. It was either find a comparable wage or move to Oregon and live with her mother.

  “Cora can be intimidating,” Amber allowed.

  What Cora could be was a fashion whore, with a whore-drobe and the objectifying attitude that men were good for one thing. Cora didn’t intimidate Gemma. She annoyed her. Cora had no respect for Gemma, and seemed to have little for herself. Why else would she sleep around instead of dating?

  “But Cora’s a good person, deep down,” Amber was saying. “Are you sure you want to be a life coach?”

  “I’d rather be the Dooley Foundation’s Chief Financial Officer.” Dooley had told her the position was hers if she graduated. It was the fast track to a CEO position.

  Amber ignored her cell phone ringing and pointed out, “You’re doing the billing and accounting now.”

  “That’s why you should hire me full-time. Business is booming.”

  “I’m sorry, Gemma, but where we need help is with clients. Your special skills…” Amber’s mouth puckered. “Your special skills with people seem to be unique. You don’t suffer fools. And I have to tell you, we have a lot of fools as clients.”

  “I know.” She’d met plenty of them.

  “Many clients need their hands held.” Amber’s sympathetic voice paired with the pity in her eyes amplified her summation of Gemma – she was lacking. “It takes tremendous patience, which is something you don’t seem to have a lot of.”

  She wanted to tell her boss that it took quite a bit of patience to work at the Dooley Foundation, both before Dooley had died and after. But she didn’t think that was the response Amber was looking for. Instead, she said, “I won’t let you down.”

  Amber’s gaze measured Gemma’s assets and liabilities.

  Here it comes. Rejection.

  Gemma’s insides pulled so tight; they threatened to hunch her shoulders in defeat.

  “I hope I don’t regret this.” Amber shook her head. “Spend time shadowing Cora.”

  ~*~

  “Mary Sue Ellen, that woman means nothing to me.” The pleading note in Archie’s voice faded as he shut himself in Trent’s hotel bedroom to try and persuade his fiancée that the picture of him circulating on the internet with Cora Rule didn’t mean he’d been cheating.

  Trent sighed and indicated Randy should resume play on the Flash game film they’d been watching. At any moment, he expected a call from Mary Sue Ellen’s parents, demanding the same reassurance Archie was trying to give their daughter.

  Trent wanted to immerse himself in season preparations and yet distractions were everywhere – surrounding him physically, crowding his brain for space, unsettling his emotions. The remains of their lunches sat on the coffee table, filling the room with the smell of cold onions and barbecue sauce. A vacuum ran somewhere down the hall. Trent’s cell phone beeped with an unclaimed message. Randy popped his knuckles, then massaged the soft tissue around his knee.

  Trent’s gaze drifted toward the window. If he silenced the noise, he could still feel Cora’s firm grip when they’d shaken hands that morning, still feel her soft lips on his jaw last night, still taste tequila and smell vanilla. He let the noise back in.

  His life was a three ring circus and he hadn’t officially started coaching yet.

  He had to let his dad clean up his own mess. He had to put getting rid of the Dooley Foundation on the back burner, along with his guilt over Randy’s injury.

  After Trent’s announcement that he was leaving Holy Southern Cross University for the NBA, Randy had walked into his office. Trouble was, the kid walked with the slow deliberation of someone recovering from ACL surgery, slowed further by an Achilles boot. He didn’t walk like the man they’d expected him to be in July – a rookie NBA player.

  Gone was the quick step. Gone was the quick smile. Gone was the glow that made Randy the young man players wanted to follow. “Good luck in the big show, Coach.”

  Trent had to swallow twice before he could thank him.

  Sure, Trent ran his teams hard and they’d suffered injuries in the past. That was the way his father had raised him. But no one had ever suffered career-ending injuries, like Randy’s. Well, no one as talented as Randy with predictions to go high in the NBA draft.

  Trent had been about to tuck his wedding picture into a box. Instead, he threw it and the pearly frame in the trash. “What’re your plans?” Landing a spot on an NBA team was about skill, your college resume, and timing. Six to nine months from now, when Randy healed, his window of opportunity would have passed, opening up for the next college star.

  Randy shrugged. “I’m done with insurance-covered rehab in two weeks. I’m not sure where I go from here.”

  There’d been a painful silence.

  And so, Trent had offered Randy a job as an assistant. Out of guilt. And maybe out of selfishness. He wouldn’t be starting a new job in a new environment alone. He’d have someone to watch his back, much as the young man was capable of watching his back.

  The Flash game they’d been reviewing via Randy’s hook-up to Trent’s hotel television finished. Their film sessions were as much about studying their players as they were about helping Randy transition to coaching. The kid had to succeed. And if he didn’t, Trent, not the Reverend, would have to let him go.

  “Well?” Trent asked Randy. “Why did they lose?”

  “They couldn’t keep up the pace.” His protégé rubbed a hand through his short brown hair. “I thought Ren Du would have a heart attack. He ran out of gas and let the team down inside.”

  The lanky seven-foot center had huffed and puffed through the last five minutes of the game.

  “It’s hard to keep up the frenetic pace of Chaos when you’re getting pounded by two men who out-weigh you by sixty pounds,” Trent pointed out.

  The team was built to run-and-gun. In a traditional game plan, they lacked an enforcer, someone to wear down their opponents with physical play. Everyone giving him advice offered this as the traditional solution to win a championship.

  But Trent had never approached the game traditionally. He’d reviewed the roster and come up with a different wish list. One Jack had approved. A couple of trades, a risky key acquisition and Trent figured he could take this team to the championship by playing schizophrenic – a fast, high scoring squad, a wear-down-the-opposition, bruiser squad, and a hybrid of the two.

  Randy checked his clipboard, where he’d been keeping stats. “Twenty turnovers in the second half. You would’ve had a coronary.”

  “It looked like their coach nearly did.” Trent tried not to listen to the pleading pitch of his father’s voice in the next room. They’d been watching game film since he’d returned from Jack’s office, and it seemed like Archie’s call wasn’t ending soon. He and Randy needed a break. “Let’s check out the offices at the practice facility before we look at any more games.”

  Randy unhooked his laptop from the television. “Coach?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Thanks for the chance. This will look good on my resume, even if I only last a month.” There was a stubborn set to his jaw.

  “You think I’m going to fire you?” Trent wasn’t sure he wouldn’t, which might have explained why he hadn’t told Randy his vision for the team, if Trent wasn’t already a need-to-know basis coach.

  Randy shrugged as he tucked his laptop in his backpack. “What NBA player is go
ing to listen to me?”

  Late at night, Trent sometimes faced the same gut-clenching fear. The list of college coaches who’d failed in the big show was long. “Have I ever told you how I started coaching?”

  Randy shook his head.

  “I was the team grunt. I edited film so only the important plays were shown during team meetings. I took stats during games. I organized the playbooks for the coaches. When they talked, I listened. I learned the game inside out. And I defended my coaches. I always had their backs.” Trent paused for that to sink in. “When I sat on the bench, I didn’t speak often, but when I did, it was with authority.” Something his old man had taught him: Speak as if you deserve their respect.

  “So I’m going to be the video guy?” Randy looked as if someone had just told him he wasn’t good enough to play recreational basketball with sixth graders.

  Trent resisted the urge to sigh. Having fallen from great heights, Randy had a long way to go up his new career path. “You’re going to chip in wherever I need you. You’re going to listen more than you talk, at least at first. You’ll help at practice. You’re going to sit the bench with me and do the same thing you did during our games. When you see an opportunity or a mismatch, you’re going to speak up. If I’m talking to one player about something, you talk to another about something else. This may evolve into your being a position coach or an offensive specialist. But you have to be patient and let your role evolve.”

  “I can do that.” Randy shifted his weight off his injured Achilles.

  Trent noticed. He gestured toward Randy’s legs. “About Monday’s workout. Maybe – ”

  “I’ll be fine. I’m cleared to run.” His chin jutted forward again. “I can’t do any side-to-side work. But I can get on a treadmill or an exercise bike. I can stand and shoot. I can lift weights as long as I don’t put undue stress on my knee or Achilles.” His chin seemed to come out further. “No excuses, Coach. If you’re going to work out with the team, I am, too.”

  Trent nodded, the same as he’d nodded in the last seconds of the Final Four when Randy said he wasn’t badly hurt.

  Shit.

  Chapter 9

  “No one’s here.” Cora stood in the Dooley Foundation’s empty lobby, looking like a fashion model displeased with the choice of runway music. “You texted me to stop by before making my rounds.” Unlike doctors, the Dooley Foundation made house calls.

  “That’s right.” Gemma grabbed her purse and her courage. If she let her fears show, Cora would drive a five inch heel into Gemma’s back, as well as this opportunity, and sashay out the door. “Amber wants you to train me for a life coaching position.”

  “Oh, hell, no. I’m calling Amber.” Cora set her boxy, black leather bag on a chair, removed Brutus, and rummaged inside, presumably for her phone. Her small, black dog sat on the Oriental carpet and yawned.

  Gemma came around the reception desk, swinging her pleather backpack purse onto her shoulders. “Amber won’t answer. She’s meeting with the Kings management team.”

  Cora’s gaze narrowed on Gemma. “You blackmailed Amber into this, didn’t you?”

  “No.” Gemma knelt to pick up Brutus, scratching him behind one ear. “The Foundation needs life coaches and I was available.”

  It was the wrong thing to say. Cora pointed a manicured finger at her dog. “Brutus is available. That doesn’t mean he’s qualified to help anybody get their shit together.”

  “I help you three – ”

  “Please.” Cora reached for Brutus. “Stay here and do your college homework.”

  “The semester hasn’t started yet.” Gemma swiveled so the fluffy Chihuahua was out of reach. “You need me.” Where did that come from?

  Cora gave Gemma a disdainful once over. “Seriously?”

  Oh, hell. Now what? Gemma nodded, stroking Brutus’ soft fur like the dog was a lucky rabbit’s foot, one that had the answer to the question she knew was coming.

  “I need you.” The sarcasm in Cora’s voice hung heavily in the air between them, a physical divider between the haves and the have-nots. “Why is that exactly?”

  “Because…because…” Gemma could feel the chance slipping through her fingers, could almost hear Cora’s derisive comments that would surely follow her for weeks on end if she didn’t come up with a good reason. It was just that Cora was such an intimidating bitch and… “You’re a bitch.”

  Cora closed her lipstick-laden lips.

  “Bitches are intimidating.”

  Cora twisted a lock of long brown hair over one shoulder, but said nothing.

  Gemma pressed on. “You scare the crap out of people.”

  “Name one.”

  Thankfully, a name came to mind. “Mimi Sorbet.” The starlet had just been released from rehab. “When she came here last week with her agent, she hesitated before she went into your office.”

  Cora’s laughter promised Gemma would never ride shotgun. “You are so clueless. Mimi is a tigress in sheep’s clothing. You think she could achieve her level of success if that helpless female act was real?” She laughed again. “You’re misreading things. You couldn’t even notice when a guy was checking you out at Jack’s party last night.”

  “Guys never notice me.” Especially the ones she wanted to, like the new assistant coach of the Flash. She’d started following him on Twitter this morning – @CoachRFarrell.

  “I wonder why.” The dismissive glance Cora was so good at skimmed over Gemma again, landing on her feet.

  Damn boots. There were fashionable army boots, and then there were these. “You need me.” Gemma hoped to heck it was true. “Take me with you today, and if I don’t contribute, I won’t ask you again.”

  Cora hesitated, considering. “One day is way too long.”

  An opening. Gemma tamped down the feeling of excitement and tossed out the only argument she had left. “You know Amber will make you do it anyway. Why not get it over with?”

  It worked!

  They didn’t talk again until Cora pulled up in front of Aloysha’s boutique. The valet jogged toward their double-parked car.

  “Why are we stopping here?” Gemma asked. “I thought we had an appointment with Portia Francis.”

  “We do.” Cora’s hands gripped and regripped the wheel. Her cheeks seemed uncharacteristically pale. “I was thinking I need a new blouse. What do you think?”

  “That I didn’t come along today to be your shopping buddy.” She couldn’t believe Cora would consider blowing off such an important assignment. Portia Francis was a big celebrity. She’d dated everybody who was anybody, including Blue.

  “You’re right.” Cora gunned it, nearly running over the valet’s toes. “I must be losing my mind.”

  ~*~

  As a rule, young Hollywood starlets were insecure, projected the impression that they were virgin whores, and flaunted their eccentricities for a blurb in People magazine. Having been exposed to Daddy’s starlet clients since she was a teen, Cora had little patience for the type.

  Portia Francis was the exception to the rule. She had that classic, blond, movie-star beauty and real talent, but was afraid almost to the point of being frozen that any misstep would ruin her career. So she dressed conservatively and looked for other ways to garner publicity. Portia’s latest cutting-edge idea? Use purple as a theme. Her movie-studio dressing room was decorated in purple and white. The fish in her tropical fish tank matched the color scheme. As did her purse and her sports car.

  Peeking in the doorway of Portia’s dressing room, Gemma looked uncomfortable in her fashion-don’t black and army green ensemble.

  “Welcome to my world,” Cora muttered to her as they entered Portia’s purple wonderland.

  But a love of purple wasn’t enough to create buzz. And since buzz seemed to follow the Dooley Foundation wherever a Rule went, Cora had been hired by the studio to help break Portia out of her stuffy shell. Enter a spotted, hairless Chihuahua from the Malibu Small Dog Rescue, an organization supported
almost solely by the Dooley Foundation.

  Looking throwback sophisticated in gray silk trousers and a white and black silk blouse, Portia took the trembling dog from Cora. “Are you sure this dog will get me press?” The tiny thing nuzzled the actress’ neck, giving her a tentative kiss. “I don’t want to seem like I’m pulling some kind of stunt, using an animal for personal gain. My fans expect me to be authentic.”

  Portia cited her fans every time her fears threatened to overwhelm her. A former Disney Channel star, Portia had experienced the tremendous highs and desolate lows of a rollercoaster career. And she was only twenty-five.

  “Besides, Cora,” Portia was saying. “You get into L.A. Happenings all the time without a dog.”

  Not by choice.

  “If you take Dottie everywhere, it won’t seem like a gimmick.” Gemma piped up, a cheerful expression on her face that looked forced and unnatural. “It’ll seem like love. And love makes the L.A. Happenings column.”

  Not hardly. Hot liaisons interested the gossip king.

  The Constant Companion program was one of her father’s most effective life coaching methods. He’d called it Dog Gone, but Blue had deemed that non-friendly and renamed it. Most clients bonded quickly with their constant companions and learned to be more compassionate. In Portia’s case, the hope was the actress would feel more comfortable putting herself out there with a live prop and conversation starter.

  Portia scratched Dottie behind her ears, smiling at Gemma the same way she’d smiled at the villain in the closing scenes of her last film, right before she’d shot him between the eyes.

  Taking Gemma along today had been a bad idea. The diminutive receptionist wasn’t cut out for Hollywood’s larger-than-life drama.

  The actress turned to Cora, shooting her with the same gaze. “I know what you’re doing. You got a dog, so you think I need a dog.”

  “We’re not in grade school.” Nor were they BFFs anymore. She and Portia were merely business associates. Cora was choosier about who she hung out with now.