And another few.
And he’s still carrying on up there, going nuts.
Muting the TV, I yell, “Melrose …your dog ...”
No answer.
Rising, I trudge upstairs and knock on her door. Her dog stops clambering for a minute and then promptly resumes.
“Melrose?” I knock again.
She must be gone—must have left while I was in the shower.
Ordinarily I wouldn’t barge into her room like this, but I feel like I should probably check on her dog because clearly he’s got an issue.
Passing her dresser, I spot a stack of yellow Post-Its and a purple gel pen resting beside them. A collection of perfume bottles along the mirror explains the over-the-top girly smell permeating from this room at all times, and shiny makeup compacts in shades like silver and rose gold are displayed neatly in the middle. There’s a chair in the corner, the back draped in what looks like expensive dresses, and no less than seven sets of high heels rest neatly side-by-side along the wall by the closet.
If Nick could see his room now.
The dog—a chubby little pug—rises on his hind legs and paws at the kennel door from the inside. His water dish is overturned, making the fur on his feet damp.
Reaching for the latch, I let him out, and he runs toward the door and turns to ensure that I’m following. From there he trots down the stairs and heads for the back door. I don’t speak “dog” but I’m pretty sure he needs to take a leak.
“You need to go outside?” I ask.
He jumps and yips and turns in a circle as he waits for me to unlock the sliding door. A second later, he bursts through the doorway and across the patio in search of the nearest tree, where he wastes no time hiking a leg.
When he’s done, he sniffs around the yard, checking out a few random bushes and twigs on the ground, before returning inside.
I should get him back to his kennel before she gets home. I don’t want to get my head bitten off—again. Once in one day is about all I can take.
The two of us trek back upstairs and he returns to his kennel with little reluctance.
Turning to leave after I fasten the latch on his cage, I stop before looking back at him. “She doesn’t need to know about this, okay?”
Shaking my head when I realize I’m talking to a freaking dog, I head out of her room and close the door.
My good deed for the day is done.
9
Melrose
With an armful of last week’s laundry, I make my way to the little closet off the kitchen and deposit everything at my feet as I take a look at the washer and dryer situation.
A moment later, I’m loading up the washer, and when I glance through the circular door of the dryer, I find it full of a load of Sutter’s whites.
Without a basket nearby, I have no choice but to carry everything to the kitchen table, only after I do that, this little voice in my head is telling me to be the bigger person and not leave it there to get wrinkled and lumpy.
Upon closer inspection, it appears to be a load of t-shirts. Mostly work shirts, it seems. And I take five minutes to fold them neatly into two even stacks.
After the constant butting of heads last week, I spent this past weekend avoiding him, and he was long gone for work by the time I got up this morning.
I’m thinking maybe we’ve taken this too far. And that the button-pushing needs to stop. I mean, neither of us wants to live like this for the next six months. I know I don’t. He'd be insane to want to keep this up. And honestly, I don't particularly like this side of me. It feels more like a character than anything else.
Heading upstairs, I grab a pen and a Post-It and return to the stack of laundry on the table and write: “OLIVE BRANCH?" with a smiley face.
A knock at the door summons my attention as I adhere the note to the table, and Murphy barks. Making my way to the front door, I spot my best friend Aerin’s familiar silhouette.
“Wasn’t sure if you were coming or not,” I say when I greet her. “Thought you might flake.”
She yanks her giant sunglasses from her face and feigns annoyance. She’s probably the most reliable, dependable, OCD, woman-of-her-word person who ever walked the earth.
“So this is where Nick’s been shacking up all year?” she asks, taking a look around. Her arms lie stiff and flat against her side as if she’s expecting dust bunnies and used panties to pop out of nowhere.
“It’s clean,” I say. “Sutter is surprisingly not a slob.”
“Why surprisingly?”
I lift a shoulder. “I don’t know. I just thought someone living with Nick might have Nick’s tendencies? Like attracts like.”
Aerin removes her pointy toe flats and aligns them neatly on the corner of the entryway rug before heading to the living room and taking a seat on the sofa.
I take the chair, letting Murphy squeeze in next to me.
“So are things better now?" she asks. “With you and Sutter?”
Last weekend, she met me for drinks at Bleu Cerulean in Brentwood and listened with her signature intentness as my frustrations flowed like a lemon vodka-flavored river.
“We didn't talk all weekend,” I say. “He was gone a lot. I was busy.”
“Awkward.”
“Not awkward,” I say. “Just weird. I folded some laundry for him just now.”
Her jaw falls. “Why would you do that?”
I laugh. “Because I’m willing to bet if I start being nice to him, he might be nice to me back? I don’t know. Unless he’s truly that demented and I’m truly that naïve.”
Aerin’s shoulders rise and fall as she contemplates my theory. “I mean, I guess it's worth a try? But what if he’s still a jerk after this?”
Excellent question.
Shrugging, I say, “No clue.”
“Nick owes you,” she says, “and you’re way too nice.”
I draw my knees against my chest and settle in my seat. “I’d do the same thing for you if you asked.”
“I would never ask you to take over my lease, nor would I ask you to live with my asshole roommate.” Aerin crosses her legs, head tilted.
I chuckle. “I know you wouldn’t.”
Aerin is quiet for a beat. Too quiet. But her eyes are loud, like there’s something she needs to say and she’s not sure how to say it.
“What?” I ask.
Her lips part for a moment and then she smiles. "I just … I know why you’re doing this.”
“Aerin.”
“I know you,” she continues. “You think if you do him this huge favor, he’s going to—”
I lift a hand, stopping her there. “I know you know I’ve liked him since we were kids, but trust me, this lease thing has nothing to do with that. I’m not dumb enough to believe doing him a favor is going to make him fall in love with me. That's idiotic. I'm doing this because he asked me to. Because he needed me to. That’s it.”
“Just promise me if things get bad with Sutter, you’ll pack your things and go.”
“Aerin." I tilt my head, saying her name with force. “You know me better than that.”
She uncrosses her legs, leaning toward me, her elbows on her knees and her hands clasped. I try not to laugh because she reminds me of an HR executive having a stern talking to a wayward employee.
“You don’t have to worry about me," I tell her. “Trust me, I can hold my own with him.”
10
Sutter
There’s a blonde hair stuck against the shower wall as I take my evening shower, and for a second it takes me back. My ex—the one with the self-proclaimed “organic vagina”—was an aspiring actress.
Also blonde.
Actresses around here are a dime a dozen and I generally avoid them at all costs, but we met when I was installing some light fixtures in her condo. She was wearing a lime green mud mask and talking my ear off, and I thought she was actually pretty funny. Not to mention she clearly didn’t care what anyone thought of her, another rarity
out here.
Spunky and outspoken, she had wild saffron hair, a spray of freckles across her nose, and a contagious laugh, Holliday—yes, that was her real name—was everything.
But after a while, I realized everything about her was just an act. She’d slip into these personalities like they were wardrobe changes. One minute she’d be a gym rat, living in Lululemon, doing sunrise yoga and drinking Matcha green tea coconut milk lattes. The next minute she’d be protesting with PETA and throwing out all the dairy products in her fridge and all the leather in her closet.
It wasn’t until she started dressing to the nines and clinging to me less that I realized she was on the verge of yet another phase—phasing me out.
I’ve never loved anyone, but I was pretty damn close to loving Holliday.
But she moved on without warning and she moved on to older men with money, ones who showered her with the kind of gifts I could never buy and took her to places I couldn’t afford to step foot in. Assholes like the one who pulled up in his freshly waxed import the other night to pick up Melrose.
Losing Holliday stung like a bitch at the time, but I like to think I came out a better person in the end—a person who refuses to get caught up in piddle-y things like “feelings” ever again.
But lately, it seems as if I’m being tested …
This new girl makes me feel shit all right.
Annoyed.
Frustrated.
Turned on…
How the one girl who gets under my skin could simultaneously be the same girl I can’t get out of my head is like some cruel joke the universe is playing on me; a giant “f-you” to my vow never to let myself get caught up over some woman ever again.
No good can come of that.
At least in my experience.
Anyway, all I’d like is a little bit of peace, a little refuge, but I can’t stop thinking of Melrose. I even found myself chuckling today when I thought about the look on her face when she realized her cock-blocking with Meegan was a success. I recognized that familiar glint, that bitten smile—because it was the same face I wore the night I sent her date packing.
Satisfaction.
Vindication.
Self-righteousness.
I’ve literally met my match—a version of me with curves and a pretty face—and she couldn’t be more annoying or more … sexy.
Earlier this morning at work, I caught myself up in some stupid daydream scenario that involved a very naked Melrose and a bunch of other shit that all started with a very unexpected kiss … and I almost ran some twelve-gauge wire instead of eight-gauge—which would’ve been a costly mistake.
I can’t afford to be thrown off my game.
I can’t afford to surrender to these stupid reveries when I’m running a business and wiring multi-million dollar estates.
I’ve spent the last few days wondering what it’d be like to bed Melrose, but that isn’t going to happen on principle, and now I need to get her out of my system.
Grabbing my phone, I text a girl named Tiffanie who’s always been “one call away” in my hours of need. She replies almost instantly with a shit ton of emojis and a capital YES, and I hit the shower, shamelessly deciding I might try to close my eyes tonight and pretend Tiff is Melrose because it’s going to be the closest thing I’ll ever allow myself to going all the way with her … and I’m absolutely fine with that.
When I’m finished getting ready, I head downstairs to grab a cold one, only to find the place is dark. Across the kitchen, a stack of folded t-shirts rests on the table. My t-shirts.
Why would she fold them for me? Is this her fucked-up way of trying to play house?
And then I see it. The Post-It.
“OLIVE BRANCH?” it says in her feminine purple scribble.
Glancing outside toward the driveway, I notice Melrose’s car parked where it was when I came home, but the house is silent. Not a single floorboard creak or footstep or God-awful show tune playing.
She must have left while I was in the shower, so I’ll have to tell her thanks next time I see her. I guess. I wouldn't put it past her to be messing with me. This could all easily be a setup.
She’s good, that one.
Sly.
And I know because the old adage is true: it takes one to know one.
Heading to the kitchen, I retrieve an ice cold Rolling Rock, take a seat in the living room, and enjoy some time to myself until Tiff gets here in a couple of hours. Halfway through my shower, I determined the reason I can’t stop thinking about Melrose boils down to the fact that I haven’t gotten laid in a few weeks.
It’s pent up.
It’s not her. It’s hormones. Or some shit like that.
My little explanation makes me feel better for now, makes me feel like I’m not going downright crazy and crushing on some obnoxious blonde who curses the day I was born.
After tonight, my little fixation will be a distant memory—I’m sure of it.
And if it isn’t? If I’m wrong and this doesn’t work?
I might be fucked, but not literally, and not by Melrose.
11
Melrose
“I can’t take my eyes off you tonight.” Robert McCauley reaches across the table, his Rolex glinting in the candlelight, as he places his hand over mine. His phone dings, but he ignores it. “You’re stunning. Just radiant.”
“Thank you.” I reach for the diamond chandelier earring dangling from my left ear and offer a gracious smile.
Fortunately I was able to reach out to Robert this past week, apologize for whatever it was my crack-smoking roommate said, and convince him that I still wanted him to take me out. He was hesitant at first—which leads me to believe there might be more to the story than either of them are sharing—but I insisted we try this again and he finally agreed.
Earlier tonight, while Sutter was engaging in his post-work shower ritual, I packed my shoes and dress and makeup and Uber’d it to Gram’s house to get ready. I couldn’t afford to risk Sutter throwing another wrench in my plans.
Robert’s phone goes off a second time, and this time his mouth presses flat and he forces a breath through his nose. “I’m so sorry, Melrose. I should take this.”
Excusing himself, he leaves me alone at our romantic table-for-two and disappears into a hallway lined with indoor trees that leads to the restrooms. Ordinarily I’d be offended that a man would take a call during a date, but Robert is kind of a big deal in this town. He’s in-demand. Highly sought-after. People’s livelihoods and careers rest in his very hands. I’d be an ego-driven fool to take this personally.
I reach for my wine, finishing off the final sip, when he returns. His hand brushes my shoulder as he makes his way to his seat.
“I’m so sorry about that,” he says.
“No worries at all.” I place my empty chalice in front of my clean dessert plate. “Believe, me. I get it.”
Robert extends his hand across the table, covering my fingertips. “I love that about you.”
When our server comes by with the check, Robert wastes no time reaching for his black Amex. I can only guess what kind of damage we did tonight—multiple courses and a bottle of wine that probably cost more than most people make in a month.
“I’m going to make a phone call first thing in the morning,” he says, gray eyes crinkling in the corners. “Guillermo del Toro has a project that you’d be picture-perfect for. Gives me goosebumps just thinking about it.”
A rush of excitement floods my body.
He has no idea how long I’ve waited to hear words like that … and it’s more than a career shortcut … it’s a confirmation that I’ve got talent, that I’ve got that certain something and someone who’s seen it all … sees it in me.
Validation. That’s all it is.
Sweet, sweet validation.
Anyone who’s been in the industry long enough knows how rare it is to land an endorsement like that from someone like him.
Robert signs the check with a
platinum-colored pen he retrieves from his inner jacket pocket, and we make our way to the valet stand. While we navigate through a sea of white table cloths, pale pink roses, and flickering tea lights, his hand never leaves the small of my back.
When his Maserati arrives, he waits for me to get in first before climbing into the driver’s seat. I’m not sure what comes after this. We’re dressed far too nicely to catch a movie, and Robert doesn’t seem like the bar fly type.
I like to think he spends his evenings in his quiet mansion in the hills, listening to jazz standards or studying classic films, maybe making phone calls to people who can make things happen in this industry, or hosting a few of his mastermind friends, dreaming up future projects.
Robert pulls into traffic, shifting his car into gear after gear as we speed through the streets of downtown L.A. under a canopy of palm trees, city lights, and twinkling stars. Tonight feels magical, otherworldly, in a way I can’t explain—like this was meant to happen just like this.
“Have you ever been to the Chateau Marmont?” he asks, one hand on the wheel as he weaves between two Range Rovers.
“Once. My grandmother hosted a dinner there a few years back.”
His car crawls to a stop at the next red light, and he glances my way, wearing a confident half-smile. “Thought we could head that way, maybe get a couple of drinks? I’m not ready for tonight to be over.”
My mouth twists up at the side and my heart flutters, but not in the way that would suggest I’m crushing hard on Robert. So far he’s simply a very nice (and very powerful) man who’s adorning me with attention and compliments and promises of a bright future. I’m not naïve and I know he’s telling me everything I could possibly want to hear tonight, but I’m not willing to walk away until I see where this is going.
There’s a chance Robert might be full of shit.
But there’s an equal chance he might be genuine.
The city is alive tonight, all its colors electric and vibrant. I crack the passenger window and let the warm breeze kiss my face.
The Complete P.S. Series Page 27