“Shut up, Cammie,” I chided. “Please, both of you, go inside.” I held out my keys and Benta snatched them. I listened to her struggle with the door and stepped around her, approaching the guy, who glared in my direction.
And just let me say again, this guy needed to walk around pissed 24/7. I could scoop sex appeal off his cheekbones and bottle it in lube and be happy for the rest of my life. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I thought I’d be back before they got here.” Behind me, I heard them get the door open, their move inside, and the angry slam of it shut.
His jaw clenched. “Are you guys going out or…” His eyes dropped to the bag of food.
“Staying in,” I said regretfully. “But we’ll be quiet, I promise. Seriously.”
“I don’t think the brunette has it in her to be quiet.”
He was absolutely correct; Benta would probably scream lullabies to her future babies, but I wasn’t about to admit that. I tried a smile. Some inspirational poster somewhere once said that a smile could cross all barriers.
The poster was wrong. He didn’t smile back. He scowled. I almost dropped my panties in response.
“You are the only one-bedroom on this floor. Everyone here pays a lot of money for this space and expects a certain level of peace. Please don’t make me evict you.”
At the word evict, any hope I had for an impromptu hallway sex session dried up. I couldn’t get evicted, couldn’t land back on Cammie’s couch, couldn’t pack up all of my things and send them back to storage. I wouldn’t.
I swallowed. “You’re not going to have to.” I stepped closer, clasping my hands together. “I swear.” From inside the apartment, Benta yelled my name, stretching the short word into about five syllables. I winced and tilted my head toward the closed door.
“Yeah,” he interrupted. “You should get to that.” He stepped back, and I missed the minty smell of his soap. Then he turned and walked away. And I swear I only stared at his ass for the first five steps.
I squared my shoulders, grabbed the bag of food, and turned the handle, prepared to give Benta and Cammie the reprimand of their lives.
24. Mo Money, Mo Problems
Day ten of being a sellout. Being the girl who took a pay raise instead of the high road. The girl who felt guilty when she wasn’t throwing dollar bills in the air, making it rain.
Three hundred extra dollars a week. I felt rich. Rich … and completely sleazy. It didn’t help that the man Nicole was cheating on, the one I was keeping in the dark by taking her bribe, had covered my ass on the broken crystal.
I almost wished he hadn’t done it, his kind act making it even harder for me to swallow Nicole’s affair. Did knowing about it and not saying anything to him make me as guilty as her? I groaned, plopping my head on the desk, and winced when the tip of the holepuncher caught me in the temple.
Next to me, upright against the desk were three Vuitton trunks. I’d spent the morning packing them with every possible thing that Nicole would need to outfit her trailer. Nicole had left the packing list, written in metallic pink ink, taped to my office door, a smiley face in its upper right hand corner like we were best bitches now. It was ninety-seven items long. Ninety-seven. I actually counted them, losing a personal bet with myself that it was over a hundred. The list included things like Q-Tips and Spanx, but also Valium and condoms. Three weeks ago, I would have admired her ability to bring her condom promotion to the movie, but ever since I saw her making out with a hipster in broad daylight, I was rethinking her condom motives. I almost didn’t pack them in a passive-aggressive attempt to thwart her adulterous plans.
“Chloe?” Nicole’s voice came from behind me and I straightened, peeling a Post-It off of my cheek.
“Yes?” I turned.
“Ready to head to set?”
“Yes.” I scooted my chair, grabbing at my bag. Turning to her, I gave my best attempt at a smile, while scanning her for signs of infidelity. Nothing. There should be a sign, the words TRAITOR blazoned across her forehead. Then again, if cheating were that obvious, I’d have caught Vic way before I did.
Today was the first day that Nicole would be on set and—let’s not be coy—I was excited. Clueless, but excited. My knowledge of the film industry was limited to watching film geeks run around the NYU campus with lighting kits and cameras. This would be different; this was real. Well, as real as a straight-to-TV movie could be. And I was pretty sure that was what it was. I couldn’t find anything out about it online. Plus, Nicole was the queen of the TV movie circuit, her résumé boasting one episode in a soap and seven movies no one had ever heard of.
If I hadn’t IMDB’d her ass, I probably would have been more excited. Especially because Nicole had been walking around like Boston Love Letters was A BIG DEAL. And her agent and publicist had been frequent visitors to the Brantley household in the last few weeks. So who knew? Maybe this would be a feature film. I was just excited to be getting out of the house, my new office feeling more like a jail cell. On the set I could make some contacts, maybe find another job that wasn’t laced with deception. Seeing Clarke’s innocent face on a daily basis was seriously increasing my wrinkle count. I could feel crow’s feet forming, caught a glimpse of them in the mirror just that week. Granted, it was a dingy mirror in a dark bar bathroom, but I’m almost positive they were there. Hiding. Lurking. Waiting.
I watched Nicole leave and studied the trunks. Hitched my bag higher on my shoulder and grabbed the first handle with both hands. Grunted a little when I lifted it.
“Don’t do that.” The world’s hottest husband spoke from behind me. I turned to face him. “You’ll kill that back of yours. Dante and I can get those.”
“Thanks.” I glanced around for anything I might be leaving, grabbing my S’well off the desk and sticking it in my bag.
“A raise, huh?”
“Excuse me?” Maybe he’d want money for the vase, after all.
“Nicole says she gave you a raise.” Clarke stepped forward and bent over, grabbing one trunk in each hand and lifting them easily.
“Yes.” I looked down, examining the fascinating hem of my shirt.
From the hall behind us, Nicole barked into her phone, voice loud, her hands gesturing wildly. No wonder she was so skinny. The woman worked off a thousand calories a day by sheer expression alone. Clarke glanced at her and lowered his voice. “So, you’ll be on set with Nicole?”
“Yes—” I stopped myself just in time, swallowing the word sir. “I will.”
“Keep an eye on her.” He said the words shortly, with a bit of an edge. “For me.”
“Keep an eye on her?” I asked hesitantly.
“You’ll understand what I mean.” He held my eyes for a heartbeat, then nodded and turned, the trunks in hand, and headed for the hall.
I followed numbly, almost bumping into Dante, and I pointed out the last trunk, whispering my thanks to him. I watched Clarke and Nicole move down the stairs and wondered, his last directive echoing in my mind, what he was talking about.
I hated her more with each passing day. I hated her for what she was doing to Clarke, and I hated her for bringing me into it, for tainting my journey of self-improvement.
Most of all, I hated all of the things I saw in her that reminded me of myself. It was like she was the Ghost of Christmas Freakin’ Future. A ghost I despised.