Two-Step

by Stephanie Fournet

  Two-Step

  Stephanie Fournet

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Books By Stephanie Fournet

  You First

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, artistic works, product names, places, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference or world building. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book whole or in part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

  Copyright © by Stephanie Fournet 2020; All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Cayla Zeek.

  www.stephaniefournet.com

  For Mrs. Amy

  In memory, gratitude, and love

  Chapter One

  IRIS

  “When you said I could spend the summer with you while you filmed your movie, this isn’t what I had in mind,” Sally says from the back seat of my rented SUV. My best friend is staring at the shop-front of the day spa in abject horror. “You actually have to do this for your job?”

  “It’s in the contract. She has to do it,” Ramon says, meeting her gaze in the rearview with a wink. “You don’t, beautiful.”

  Sally’s cheeks go scarlet. If she’s not careful, her glasses are going to fog up. I swat my personal assistant on the knee.

  “Ow—”

  “Stop doing that to her,” I hiss. “She’s an innocent. From Oklahoma. She has no natural defenses against Puerto Rican pheromones like yours.”

  Ramon brings his lazy gaze back to Sally’s reflection. “They are rare and potent pheromones,” he purrs, and I hear Sally’s breath catch. Ramon has been teasing and flirting with her since he picked us up at the airport last night, and her blush tells me she’s taking it a little too seriously.

  It’s understandable. Sally and I have just spent the last two weeks hiking a one-hundred-fifty-mile section of the Appalachian Trail for our vacation—just the two of us. Every guy we encountered needed at least three showers and two shaves before any of them could be considered flirt-worthy.

  Ramon is clean, coiffed, and one hundred percent gorgeous. He’s also one hundred percent trouble.

  “Cut it out, Ray,” I scold him before twisting around to face my best friend. “Steer clear of him. He doesn’t do monogamy.”

  Sally’s mouth opens and closes like she’s a landed fish. “I didn’t—I wasn’t—”

  I hold up a hand. “I know you weren’t. It’s not you. It’s him.” I shoot Ramon a glare before looking back at Sally. “And, you know he’s bi, right? So you’d have to be paranoid about all the guys in addition to the other girls.”

  Sally’s shocked gaze snaps to Ramon.

  He shrugs, his grin a sinister curling of lips. “It’s true. I love both beautiful women and men.”

  But instead of clapping her hand over her mouth in embarrassed horror as the Sally I went through puberty with would have done, she closes her gaping mouth, visibly swallows, and licks her lips, looking… thoughtful.

  Even though Ramon has worked for me for three years, this is the first time they’ve met face to face. No one else is allowed on our AT hikes—that time is ours alone—and between Sally’s school schedule at the University of Oklahoma and my work schedule, she hasn’t visited me in L.A. since our senior year of high school. She’s not equipped to handle Ramon and all his Ramon-ness.

  I clap my hands to get her attention.

  “Seriously, Sal. Here be dragons.”

  These two people are, hands down, my favorite people in the world. And as awesome as they both are, I can’t have them hooking up, and in Ramon’s case, screwing up, and jacking up my life. It may sound selfish, but at this point in my career, it needs to be smooth sailing, and that can’t happen if the people I care about most in the world can’t stand to be in the same room together.

  Or, for example, the same car.

  “And I thought you’d be cranky after the asshole waxing,” Ramon mutters.

  Sally gasps and I choke.

  “What?!”

  “Moira didn’t tell you? She booked legs, armpits, and the full Brazilian.”

  I clench my jaw. Goddamned Moira. “The contract didn’t say anything about me needing a Brazilian wax. It said bikini. I know. I read the whole thing.”

  “You—” Sally squeaks, her eyes as wide as goose eggs, “have to wax your…”

  “No,” I say firmly. Because Moira can kiss my ass. Hair and all. I mean, not that there’s really any hair back there to speak of.

  That is, I haven’t exactly checked, but—

  “And they actually do that sort of thing,” Sally points to the front of the day spa, “here?”

  Ramon shrugs. “Why do you think the name is Rose Petal Spa?”

  Sally silently mouths the name of the spa, and I see the moment it all clicks into place. She goes pale. “Oh my God.” Then she looks at me. “Iris, you poor thing!”

  “I’m not—”

  She’s shaking her head. “Why would the studio even need you to do that? I thought Hexed was TV-MA. You’re playing a witch.” She frowns at me behind her glasses, all concerned confusion. “How would anyone see Raven Blackwell’s... your… your... “

  “They won’t.”

  “Well, there is that bathing suit scene you’re shooting next week,” Ramon says.

  I glare at him. “They. Won’t.”

  He puts his hands up in surrender as though I’m holding a weapon. “Should we call Moira? You know how she gets when you change—”

  “No one’s going to call Moira,” I say.

  “Calling Moira. Mobile.” Siri announces through Bluetooth.

  My eyes snap to the media display on the dash, and I jab the red circle to end the call. “Shit. Shit!” The call disconnects before she can answer, but my heart is already pounding.

  A preternatural stillness falls over the car, all three of us watching the display as if it is a sleeping panther we must sneak past in a perilous jungle.

  Seconds tick by in silence.

  Ramon lets out a breath. “Maybe she didn’t see the c—”

  The trill of the incoming call rattles the windows, and Moira’s name flashes across the display.

  “Dammit,” I hiss.

  We all stare, frozen.

  Sally pipes up from the back seat. “You could just let it go to voice—”

  “No, we can’t,” Ramon and I say in unison.

  I curse again in defeat and push the answer symbol.

  “Why aren’t you at the waxing appointment?” Moira’s voice attacks from all sides. Ramon’s hand shoots out to turn the volume down t
o a bearable level.

  “We’re here,” I say, trying to sound as casual as possible. “Everything’s cool.”

  “Then why are you calling? Is there a problem?”

  “Accident. Just an accident,” I blurt. “Butt dial.”

  “Well, are they running late? It sounds like you’re calling from the car? Why haven’t you gone in yet?” I reach for the volume knob and give it another quarter turn so her voice feels less like iron spikes in my brain stem. This is typical Moira. Question after question after question. It doesn’t occur to her to pause and let me answer them one at a time.

  “We’re about to go in. We just—” I shouldn’t do this. I know I shouldn’t do this.

  “Just what?” she snaps.

  “We were just discussing the appointment. I don’t really think a full Brazillian is nec—”

  She cuts me off. “Ramon and I talked about this.”

  I whip my gaze to Ramon who is already shaking his head like he’s suffering demonic possession. But I don’t have to see his silent denial to know that when Moira says she’s discussed anything with someone else, it usually doesn’t imply a dialogue. She’s the only one who gets a word in most of the time.

  “I appreciate that, but I don’t think—”

  “Iris, listen to me. As your manager, I think we need to set the tone from the very beginning that you are the kind of star who goes above and beyond for the role.”

  “Yeah, but Mo—”

  “I don’t have to tell you what a close call this was,” she says, sounding both relieved and judgmental. “When the network cancelled the show after just three seasons, do you have any idea how lucky we were that the studio picked up the movie rights?”

  “Of course I know. I’m the one who was out of a job for three weeks.” I sigh, frustration shortening the ligaments between my shoulder blades.

  “We were all out of a job, Iris. Don’t forget that this isn’t just about you,” she says, her voice losing the relief and leveraging guilt in its place.

  I drop my gaze into my lap, but out of the corner of my eye, I notice Ramon’s hand tighten around the steering wheel.

  “I know this isn’t just about me.” But the words don’t seem to have enough air behind them.

  “What did you say? You’re mumbling again.”

  I fill my lungs and ignore the tightening in my throat. “I know,” I say clearly this time. “I know this isn’t just about me.”

  “Well, good. I’m so glad to hear that. Because if the studio likes working with you and Hexed is a box office success, you know there could be sequels, and you would have just written your own ticket.”

  “I get that, Moira, but I don’t see what a Brazillian wax has to do with any of tha—”

  “How many times have I told you about going the extra mile? I mean, we’ve spent years on this road, haven’t we? Look how far we’ve come. All the way from Broken Bow, Oklahoma.”

  I swallow. “Right.” It’s all I can say. There’s no point in arguing anymore. I don’t even remember why I started to in the first place.

  Oh, yeah, because I don’t want a stranger ripping hairs out of my ass crack.

  Hell, I don’t want anyone ripping hairs out of my ass crack, strangers or no.

  But right now, what I don’t want even more is to continue this conversation.

  “Okay, Moira. We’re gonna go in now or else I’ll be late.”

  “Good. Good. If you want to call me while you’re on the table, we can talk about some product endorsement offers that came in over the weekend.”

  I hear Sally choke.

  “No. No.” I shudder, picturing taking a call with Moira while someone is spreading hot wax on my nether parts. I’m pretty sure this is my custom-made version of hell. “I’ll call you later.”

  Moira’s sigh slithers around us. “Fine. Just don’t forget.”

  “I won’t,” I say through clenched teeth.

  “Ramon, don’t let her forget.”

  “Of course not,” Ramon answers in a rush.

  “And don’t let her trip on the way into the spa. You know how clumsy she is when she’s distracted.”

  I shut my eyes and squeeze them until all I see is red and black.

  Ramon clears his throat. “I won’t let anything happen to her, Moira.” It’s the certainty in his voice that allows me to open my eyes again. I look at him. He’s watching me, too much sympathy in his caramel brown eyes.

  I look back at Sally who is biting her lip, concern a stamp between her auburn brows.

  “If that’s all, Moira, we’re going to—”

  “Yes. Get in there. You’re officially late.”

  And the call disconnects.

  None of us moves. No one says a word.

  After a long moment, Sally whispers, “Is… Is she gone?”

  I try to inhale a lungful of air, but I can’t seem to make my ribs expand. I blow out a shallow breath instead. “Yeah, she’s gone.”

  Ramon unbuckles his seatbelt, exits the rental, and closes the door behind him. He takes his time moving around the front of the car, and I know he’s giving me a much needed minute.

  Sally hasn’t been around enough to know better. “You know what, Iris?”

  I try for another solid breath. “What, Sal?”

  “Your mom is the scariest person I’ve ever met.”

  I have to laugh because what else can I do. At least it gets me breathing again. “Yeah, tell me about it.”

  Ramon opens the passenger side door, and I slide out, but the slide gets away from me, and instead of slipping gracefully out of the Range Rover, I botch the landing, and my heels skid forward way too far, and my ass—the one that’s destined for waxing—is headed for the cement.

  But Ramon catches my elbow just in time, halting my fall.

  “Damn, Iris,” he curses, hauling me to my feet. “You trying to get me fired?”

  “Sorry,” I say, shaken and pissed at myself. “I—sorry.”

  “You lightheaded?” Ramon asks, frowning at me.

  I shake my head. “No. I’m fine. It’s just…” But I don’t say it. Ramon has worked for me long enough that I don’t need to. He opens Sally’s door, hands her out smooth as silk, and reaches for the cooler in the back seat.

  “Here,” he says, handing me the second bottle of today’s juice cleanse. “Drink this.”

  I frown. “But this is supposed to be for lunch.”

  “Nah.” Ramon shakes his head. “Change of plan. We’ll get you a salad for lunch. Loaded. Just drink this now.”

  I don’t argue. Ramon, my personal assistant/nutritionist/personal trainer/bodyguard, knows when he needs to step in and tell me how it is.

  “We probably should have waited until tomorrow to start juicing anyway,” he says, taking my arm and escorting me to the door.

  “Yeah, but we start rehearsals tomorrow, and Moira didn’t want me to look bloated after vacation.” Hiking the AT might be active, but doing so requires a high-carb diet. And high-carb means belly bloat. I knew a juice cleanse had been in my future before Sally and I even booked our plane tickets.

  He pulls open the door of the boutique spa and a gust of cool AC welcomes us. “Yeah, but we didn’t take into account the Louisiana humidity. You need time to adjust to the new climate.”

  He’s right. It’s only ten in the morning, and the heat is unreal. The air is heavier than I’ve ever felt in L.A.

  “You said filming on location was going to be an adventure,” I say, hoping to make Ramon smile. When we heard Hexed would be filmed in Louisiana, we made alligator jokes for a good two weeks.

  Our favorite one was about alligator attacks, managers, and odds on survival. But in the end, we decided that if any swamp reptile tried to eat Moira, she’d merely walk away with a new set of luggage.

  Sally follows us inside. “I wish we were just here for a mani-pedi,” she whispers. And I get why she’s whispering. The place is all muted colors, soft lighting, water-f
eature splashing, and chime-music chiming.

  “Well, you’re here for a mani-pedi,” I say, forcing a smile. “I’m here for a smooth asshole that’s going to lead to stardom and job security.”

  Ramon and Sally both splutter with laughter, covering their mouths to try to stay quiet as we approach the reception counter. And their laughter is the only thing that makes me feel sane right about now.

  “Who knows,” I say. “Maybe one day, I’ll get my own starfish on Hollywood Boulevard.”

  My friends double over, and I cling to the rush it gives me as I face my doom.

  Chapter Two

  BEAU

  “Be sure that you know the passé composé for all the verbs we’ve studied, not just the irregular ones.” I look over the sea of faces and find two prevailing expressions: disinterest and disgust.

  “But why can’t we be exempt if we have an A?”

  Of course, Erin Van Buren is the one to mount a challenge. She has the third highest grade in the class, but she thinks she has the second. Erin knows she’s trailing behind Charlie Stockstill by just one point, but neither she nor Charlie knows that Greta Richard is at the top of the class.

  Because Greta doesn’t boast. She’s also one of the few in the classroom who isn’t giving me a death stare.

  “Parce que, Madame Van Buren, Je n’exempt pas.” Fortunately, judging by the looks on their faces, most of the class understands. And they should. This is French II. And it’s May. A fully immersed class is the way I’d like to teach, but here, at Northside High School, I’d lose most of my students. Even at the end of the year, I still have to translate for half of them. “I don’t exempt.”