The Complete P.S. Series

by Renshaw, Winter

“For the love of God, woman.” I roll over, groaning and sandwiching a pillow around my head, but it does very little to block the sound.

  The girl’s got some pipes. I’ll give her that. I bet she’s one of those Hollywood-manufactured “triple threats,” the ones whose parents shelled out tens of thousands of dollars over the course of their adolescence to ensure they could sing, dance, and act at a level that would land them enough audition exposure that someday, maybe someday … they might be the next Ariana Grande.

  Groaning, I reach for my phone on the nightstand and pop some earbuds into my ears. Within ten seconds, Steely Dan is playing in my ear and it’s like that stupid Broadway show isn’t even happening in my bathroom.

  I play to Hey Nineteen first.

  Then Deacon Blues.

  Bad Sneakers and Show Biz Kids.

  Yanking an earbud out once the fifth song begins to start, I listen to the situation going on outside my door and determine the singing and the shower have yet to stop.

  Tossing the covers off, I crawl out of bed with some unapologetically massive morning wood and trudge to the bathroom, where I find a yellow Post-It stuck to the frame. Scribbled in purple ink is:

  RESERVED FOR MELROSE 6:00 AM - 7:00 AM M-F

  She better hope to God this is a joke.

  I crumple the note and pound on the door.

  “Who is it?” she calls in a sing-song voice that could rival a Disney princess any day of the week.

  “You about done? I’ve got a job site to get to.” Resting my hand on my hip, I exhale. I’m supposed to arrive by eight, and leaving a minute later than my usual time can sometimes be the difference between arriving on time and sitting in an extra twenty minutes of traffic.

  I never had this problem with Nick.

  Nick would roll in around three AM most mornings, sleep all day, and do his showering sometime between lunch and dinner—at least I assume. The house always smelled like soap when I’d get home from work in the evening.

  “I need to let this conditioner sit on my hair at least another twelve minutes,” she yells.

  Pressing my forehead against the door, I breathe in the scent of the flowery body wash and shampoo that trails beneath the door.

  But a second later the lock pops and the door swings open, revealing a gaping-mouthed Melrose standing in front of the mirror, hair wrapped in a turban and body covered in a thick robe that leaves everything to the imagination.

  “You can’t just bust in here,” she says, hands clenching her fluffy lapels. “Seriously. What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Been meaning to fix that lock,” I tell her once I realize what happened. It was an accident. I swear. “Why the hell is the shower still running and you’re standing here in a robe?”

  “The steam is good for my pores.”

  She must think I’m a bona fide idiot. It’ll bring me great pleasure to set her straight.

  “Do you always wear a towel on your head when you condition it?” I ask again, glancing at her sideways.

  “Always.” She fights a smile.

  A second later, the steam begins to lift and the small room cools, but the shower still runs.

  “You used all the hot water,” I say, hands on my hips as I release a hard breath.

  “I did? Oh, my gosh. I’m so sorry.” She turns to the shower, twists the knob, and squeezes her body between myself and the doorway.

  Her back is to me as she heads back to her room, but I’m sure she’s wearing a Texas-sized grin.

  Balling my hand into a fist, I press it against my forehead and take a deep breath before striding across the hall and knocking on her door. I need to nip this in the bud immediately.

  “Yes?” she answers a second later, still wearing her giant bathrobe.

  “I know what you were trying to do,” I say. “Don’t do it again.”

  Her straight white teeth rake across her full bottom lip as her mouth curls. “Don’t mess with me and I won’t mess with you. It’s that simple.”

  I narrow my gaze. “Is this because I walked out of the shower naked yesterday? I forgot my towel. What was I supposed to do, wrap the goddamned bath mat around me?”

  So what if she saw my ass for half a second? Half the cable shows these days show a hell of a lot more than that. I covered up the important bits—at least as best I could.

  “You really expect me to believe you when you literally walked out of the bathroom naked and winked at me?” Melrose asks. The wink was meant to be lighthearted, to reduce the awkwardness of the situation and assure her I wasn’t a goddamned sex offender. Had I known the stupid wink would’ve made or broken the situation, I never would’ve done it. “Anyway, don’t you have to go to work or something? Should probably get in there. I bet you’ve got enough water now for a lukewarm three-minute shower if you hurry.”

  With that, she shuts the door and I linger, infuriated—but mostly impressed.

  I don’t want to speak too soon given the fact that she hasn’t lived here a full twenty-four hours yet … but I think I just met my match.

  5

  Melrose

  “How do I look, Murph?” I do a spin in front of my dog, showing off the black, skin-hugging Herve Leger bandage dress I only reserve for special occasions.

  His little round face tilts and he blinks.

  I snap a picture of my reflection and text it to my best friend, Aerin, who isn't afraid to tell me if something isn't working.

  “You’re right. I’ve worn this way too many times. I’ll retire it after tonight.” I head across my new room and examine my reflection in the mirror. This morning—after the shower incident—I went for a jog around the new neighborhood, which is surprisingly quaint and residential and not at all the party hub I’d expect Nick to occupy.

  For lunch, I met up with a couple of friends from acting class, and then I spent the better part of this afternoon curling my hair and brushing out the cooled tendrils until they formed shiny, Hollywood starlet waves.

  Reaching for a tube of look-at-me pink lipstick, I slick a coat across my full mouth before smiling and checking my teeth.

  The lipstick is nothing more than a strategy. For starters, men have tragically short attention spans, especially in a city where gorgeous women are everywhere they look, so if I’ve got this eye-grabbing color on my mouth, it tends to draw their gaze in that direction.

  Second, while they’re watching my mouth, there’s a good chance they might actually be listening to the words coming out of it.

  Lastly, if I’m wearing a color like this, most of these men won’t dare try to kiss me. They don’t want to walk out of the Ivy and risk bumping into their friends with a girl half their age on their arm and a hint of lipstick anywhere on their person—be it their mouths or their collars.

  These guys like to wear their shameless tastes at whisper-volume.

  It’s in the silent Rolex on their wrist.

  The confident way they always know how to order the proper wine at every meal.

  The subtle art of name-dropping.

  The million-dollar sports car in a normal shade like black or white or silver.

  The house hidden deep in the Hollywood Hills, behind winding, gated driveways.

  Of course, there are the types who wear their affinity for the finer things like a badge of honor, pulling up in their yellow Ferrari and wearing more bling than the average rapper for a quiet dinner for two.

  I generally try to avoid those types but it never fails—occasionally one will slip in. And contrary to how most people might perceive me, materialistic isn’t my thing. My designer sunglasses? My fancy shoes? My high-priced luggage? All hand-me-downs from my mom.

  I’m too broke to afford nice meals and monogrammed luggage.

  Turns out the whole struggling actress thing is more than just a cliché—it’s my reality.

  My phone vibrates on the nightstand, and I reach for it, swiping my thumb across the lock and tapping the message icon.

  ROBE
RT: Still on for tonight? 7?

  I reply with a smiley face and a simple “of course” and press send.

  ROBERT: On my way.

  Robert McCauley is a local producer with a laundry list of impressive connections. We met on the set of that Lifetime movie I worked on a few months back, and he wasted no time asking me out. Only he had to head back to L.A. shortly after filming began and our schedules never aligned … until now.

  If my cousin, Maritza, were here, she’d be giving me shit for going on a date with a guy twice my age, but it’s nothing kinky or nefarious.

  The older men I date tend to be a bit classier, a bit more refined. They have the kind of worldly experience the twenty-somethings around here have yet to possess. And they’re not cheap assholes. I appreciate a guy who knows life’s too short to order off the dollar menu.

  Plus, I’d much rather dress up and be treated to a gourmet dinner than for some guy to take me to a house party in Calabasas to hang out with his friends … and then proceed to ditch me when his crush shows up. Or the kind who talk about how successful they are and drive Porsches but have the nerve to ask me to “go Dutch” when the check arrives.

  Amateurs.

  I don’t waste my time with guys my age anymore, and I’m not even sorry about it.

  I take a seat on the edge of my bed, smirking when I think about this morning and the shower incident.

  I’ll admit, I’m not normally so juvenile. Waking him up with show tunes and using up all the hot water is a little beneath me, but after his little post-shower show, I had to prove a point and I had to prove it as soon as possible.

  Anyway, Sutter’s the spitting image of the kind of guys my age who tend to ask me out. And he’s the spitting image of the kind of guys I have zero problem turning down.

  The front door slams and the walls of the house shudder for a second.

  Speak of the devil …

  “Come on, Murph.” I pat my thigh and he hops off the bed, following me downstairs. I need to let him outside before Robert gets here, and then I’m locking him in his kennel—for his own protection.

  Not that I don’t trust Sutter, but God forbid, if Murphy got lost or something, I wouldn’t count on Sutter to do me any favors. I’d rather have him safe and sound and come home to find him exactly where I left him.

  Heading downstairs, I turn the corner by the door and nearly smack into the man of the hour.

  “Hey,” I say, tucking a blonde wave behind my ear.

  His skin is a sun-kissed shade of bronze, his dirty blond hair painted in natural highlights. The white shirt, which reads ALCOTT ELECTRIC, has a slash down the front, exposing the taut ripple of his upper abs.

  Murphy scratches at my leg for me to pick him up, but I already lint-rolled this dress for a solid ten minutes earlier and I’m not about to do it again since my date will be here soon.

  Our eyes hold, but Sutter stays silent. I have no idea if he hates me for this morning or if he’s still assessing my prowess. Judging by the slight squint on his face, I’m guessing a combination of both.

  “O … kay then,” I say, stepping around him. “Come on, Murph, let’s go outside.”

  My dog trots in step with me and we head to the back sliding door, moving out to the patio.

  The backyard is tiny, microscopic almost, but it’s surrounded by trees and a faded wooden privacy fence, and you can’t hear traffic or even neighbors.

  It’s cozy.

  Nothing like Gram’s elaborate estate or the comfortably generous home I grew up in next to Nick.

  Leaning against a painted banister, I wait for my dog to do his thing before checking the time.

  Robert should be here any minute.

  My heart skips a beat when I try to picture that initial meeting—the first time you see someone after you spent an entire afternoon getting ready. The joining of two anticipatory stares. The intersection of two breathless smiles.

  I also simply love dating.

  I love meeting new people.

  I love networking and making connections, especially when those connections could possibly lead to future opportunities.

  This is my jam, my element.

  This is what I do.

  Murphy trots back to the patio and we head inside. I take a seat on the cognac leather sofa, crossing my legs and inspecting my DIY manicure for any chips or scratches.

  All good.

  Glancing out the window, I count six cars passing before I decide to run upstairs and locate my vintage Cartier bracelet—a good luck gift from Gram on my sixteenth birthday.

  Robert is probably one of the most connected guys to ever ask me out. His resume is a laundry list a mile long, filled with impressive names and blockbuster hits. But aside from the professional advantage that would come with dating him, he’s handsome and kind.

  Climbing the stairs, I stride to my room and close the door as I crouch beside my suitcase to search the pockets for my jewelry case.

  I have every intention of getting organized this weekend, but I need to get some boxes and things to store Nick’s belongings. The guy asked me to move into his room, but he left it just the way it was—probably only taking with him an armful of wrinkled clothes in a giant suitcase.

  His posters and pictures and guitar picks and coffee-stained notebooks are still littered around the room, exactly how he had them.

  I even found an empty Old Milwaukee can under his bed.

  Oh, Nick …

  It only takes a few more tries, but I manage to find my bracelet and the key that unlocks it, and a moment later, I’m corralling Murphy to his kennel and heading back downstairs to wait for my date.

  The scent of men’s body wash mixes with humid air and fills the stairway, which tells me Sutter’s taken his post-work shower—which I’m learning is his thing.

  Part of me feels the urge to apologize for this morning. I can’t imagine starting your day with a lukewarm shower courtesy of some random girl who’s living with you is the best way to kick things off …

  Now I kind of feel bad, but at the time I felt vindicated.

  With a hand on my hip and my heels clicking against the hardwood, I go to the kitchen, following the sound of the slamming fridge door and the pop and hiss of a bottle of beer.

  “Hey,” I say. “I’m sorry—for this morning. I shouldn’t have used all the hot water.”

  He takes a swig, eyes dragging the length of me.

  “But seriously, we need to get along and respect each other,” I say. “Otherwise the next six months are going to be—”

  “—you should probably take that off.” Sutter’s voice is monotone and he takes another drink.

  “What?” My face scrunches. I’m beyond confused. If this is his way of hitting on me, so help me …

  “He left.”

  “Who left?” I ask.

  “That guy,” he says, nodding toward the front door. “The guy that showed up in a three-piece suit, driving a Ferrari.”

  “Robert?”

  “Didn’t get his name. Anyway, I told him to leave.”

  My eyes widen. I could punch him right now. “Do you have any idea who that was?!”

  Sutter shrugs. “Nope. Don’t know. Don’t care.”

  “Robert McCauley,” I say his name slowly, enunciating every syllable.

  Sutter shrugs again, like the name still doesn’t register.

  “He’s a very important producer,” I say, lips numb and wavy. My hands are shaking. My voice too. “We’ve had this date planned for months. Why … why would you do that? What gives you the right?”

  “I did you a favor.” He leans against the counter, resting on his elbow like we’re just having some casual conversation.

  “You have no idea what you've just done.” My jaw tightens so hard an ache travels up the side of my cheek, lingering, burning.

  He shakes his head. “Guy just wanted some pretty young thing on his arm and some sex with a woman whose libido hasn’t peaked. It’s disgus
ting actually. And desperate. For both of you.”

  “Screw you.”

  “Is that an offer?” He smirks, and I could smack that perfect smile right off his handsome mouth. Despite the fact that Sutter is obnoxiously attractive by anyone’s standards, right now, his face annoys me.

  “Never.” My arms fold along my chest, tight. “Never in a hundred million years. And that’s a promise.” I abhor how juvenile I sound, but I’m too distracted to contain myself.

  Grabbing my phone, I decide to text Robert, but before I do, I need to know what Sutter said.

  “What’d you say to get him to leave?” I ask.

  His lips are pressed against the mouth of his Rolling Rock beer, but he doesn’t take a drink. “Does it matter?”

  “I need to undo whatever the hell you just did, so yes. It matters. Tell me. Now.”

  He heads to the sink, finishing the rest of his beer before rinsing the bottle out and dropping it in a recycling bin by the end of the counter.

  I’ve never met such a civilized asshole.

  “I told him he’s not good enough for you,” Sutter says, turning to face me. His hands rest on the counter behind him and he crosses his feet at the ankles, like we’re just a couple of pals chatting and I’m not standing here in a thousand-dollar dress in thousand-dollar heels and in hair and makeup that took my entire afternoon to get right.

  “Why would you say that?” My throat tightens.

  Sutter straightens his posture, folding his arms across his muscled chest. “Because I know his type.”

  Rolling my eyes, I bite my bottom lip to keep it from trembling. “You know nothing about me. You know nothing about him. You had no right.”

  “I know enough.”

  Cupping my hand over my eyes, I suck in a hard breath. I can’t look at him right now and I want to leave, but my body is so heavy, my blood so thick and hot, I’m paralyzed into place.

  “There had to have been more,” I say a moment later, forcing myself to meet his gaze. “He wouldn’t have just left because some random guy told him he wasn’t good enough for me.”

  Robert McCauley has an ego of steel and more confidence than George Clooney and Tom Cruise combined. It’d take a lot more than some cocky electrician telling him off to get him to ditch me.