Starlight (Peaches Monroe) (Volume 2) Paperback – September 2, 2013 (25 page)

I looked down at the piping on the orange vinyl sofa and flicked at the worn-thin spots with my fingernail. Fine filaments like fur were sticking out along the cracks.

After a moment, I said, “I think he spent the night in the bony arms of his model skank ex-girlfriend. I’m not sure. I kinda just left and haven’t checked in yet.”

“So you ran out on him, lathered up in an emotional tizzy, yet he’s the one in the doghouse?”

“Maybe.” I chugged my water, still avoiding eye contact.

“I’m starting to see a pattern,” he said.

The tissh-tissh sound of the paintbrush on the canvas started again, so it was safe for me to look up.

“What are you painting? Turn it and show me. My bare legs are stuck to this ridiculous couch and I can’t get up.”

“Peaches Monroe, guys always let you down, don’t they?”

“No comment.”

“They say every story has a happy ending, if you stop in the right place. I’d say you make sure your relationships have a bad ending, because you run out before a minor misunderstanding can run its course.”

I swallowed hard. “If you’re trying to make me feel like shit on toast, it’s working. I’m dressed in a drag queen’s clothes, I got a tattoo I’m too scared to look at, I narrowly escaped getting arrested, and now the world’s most beloved TV vampire is telling me I suck at life.”

Dalton slowly turned the wood-framed easel to face my way. The image was mostly blue, like sky above ocean, with an orange circle like the sun, and in white letters:
Trust the process.

“I don’t get it.”

Dalton stroked his chin thoughtfully. “
Trust the process
is one of the things my best acting teacher used to say. Basically, it means… well, it means whatever you want it to mean. My process is not your process.”

“Maybe you should be dating Keith. He’s into all sorts of spiritual stuff. Do you like parsley shakes?”

“You don’t suck at life. And Keith seems like a good guy. I feel protective of you. I’m your friend, remember? I knew it from the day we met.” His expression got serious. “I feel rotten about the NDA I had you sign. I’ve never told anyone about my past before, and I was caught off guard by how exposed I felt. I’m sorry I put you in that position.”

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry I freaked out and ran off all those times. Especially the last time.” I drank the last bit of water from the bottle. “But here we are. No hard feelings. I’m ready to be your friend.”

Mitchell came out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam just as I was finishing. “And I’m ready for bru-uuuu-uuunch!” he sang.

My stomach growled, because apparently my stomach recognizes the word
brunch
, even when flamboyantly sung.

We were going to try the Hollywood hot spot, Mr. Chow, but the swarm of photographers made Dalton keep driving. Instead, the three of us went to brunch at a bistro with white tablecloths and paintings of fruit on the walls—real paintings, not those cheap mass market prints you get at chain stores.

My breakfast was a spinach and olive omelet, and it came with gorgeous fresh fruit, including ripe pineapple and papaya. Oh, plus there were tiny slivers of various cheeses. So good.
Myam myam
, as they say in some circles.

Mitchell had finally toned down his fanboy-ness and was asking Dalton questions about the show—questions Dalton seemed quite pleased to answer, such as what did the fake blood taste like? (Corn syrup.) Was the director a nightmare to work with? (No, but the director’s assistant was a control freak.)

They talked about photography, and then got onto Quentin Tarantino films, both of them becoming gushing fanboys about how much they’d love to work with him, or with Nicolas Refn, whose film violence was “stylish, but more chilling than Tarantino’s.”

The waitress was attentive, never letting my ice water get more than one third empty.

The conversation veered into the territory of some of my favorite movies, and it turned out Mitchell was a great conversational link, because he liked dude movies and chick movies. The three of us had a great talk, and two hours passed easily.

I’d had a number of mochas, and excused myself to the washroom, which had really great lighting and fresh flowers.

In there, I pulled out my cell phone and checked for messages from Keith. He’d only sent one, and it wasn’t what I expected.

Keith:
Sounds like you’re having fun! Thanks for checking in!

I shook my fist at Last Night Peaches, who had apparently sent him a dozen messages babbling about hanging out with Mitchell (whom Keith had met at the photo shoot), talking about the club we were at, and even saying I was dancing with all the LA Lakers guys.*

*That was actually a teensy lie, because I remembered most of being at the club. I actually danced with a couple tall guys who were LA Lakers
fans
, but when you’re drunk and name-dropping by text, you get a little fast and loose with the facts.

There was no panic in Keith’s single reply, because I’d apparently assured him I’d be crashing at Mitchell’s place. Neither was there any explanation from him about what the fuck he was doing for three hours with his drunk and vulnerable ex-girlfriend, with her tears and her ratty fake hair and her quivering lower lip.

Just thinking about her nearly made me rage-flush my phone. I sent him back a message designed to get him squirming.

Me:
So, should I come back there to get my stuff, or what do you want?

Perfect. Just vague enough I could play it either way depending on how he responded. If he was guilty, he’d assume I knew everything, and 'fess up. If he hadn’t played Enjoy My Tasty Burrito with his ex, he’d tell me to get back over there and play a round with him.

I tucked my phone away and fixed my makeup. I’d spotted a couple photographers outside the restaurant, so I figured it best to be prepared.

When I came back to the table, the two guys were strangely quiet and grinning.

“What’s going on?”

“We were just discussing your commercial shoot on Monday,” Mitchell said.

I took my seat, careful to smooth out the floral skirt of the drag queen’s dress.

“I wish I was done with all my obligations,” I said.

“You miss your little town?” Dalton asked.

“No.” Yes, I did, but I didn’t want him to know, to think I was too weak to spend a week away from home—to think I was like those wimpy kids at summer camp who sob inconsolably on the first night.

“She’s adapting just fine to LA,” Mitchell said.

“Thank you.” I gave him my sweetest smile.

Dalton put his elbow on the table, rested his chin on his hand, and stared at me as if Mitchell wasn’t even there. “What are your plans for the rest of the day?”

I squirmed in my chair. “Keith is busy with other stuff, so I’m just going to hang out.”

“Wanna come hang out at my house?” The light in the restaurant practically danced in his sexy green eyes.

“Stop looking at me like you’re the fox and you just got the keys to my hen house.”

“I’m not. You’re projecting your ravenous sexual desires onto me.”

“Oh my,” I coughed, pretty sure the tables around us quieted down to listen.

“This is the downside to being a sex symbol,” Dalton said to Mitchell, all the while keeping his gaze on me. “These women, and their craven fantasies. They have all these wicked ideas about what they want to do to you, but they’re like domesticated cats who finally catch a rabbit. Once they have you, they get all kittenish and embarrassed. The truth is, despite all their one-sided fantasies, once they have you, they don’t know
what
to do with you.”

“Hah!”

He continued, “The thing about a fantasy is you can have magical spells and goblins in a fantasy. Or relationships with no rocky patches, ever. In real life? Not so much.”

I put my chin on my hand, mirroring Dalton’s pose. “In my fantasies, the guy doesn’t lie to get into the girl’s pants, passing off movie lines as his own feelings.”

“But the guy touches the girl just right, doesn’t he? And he keeps things interesting on their dates, takes her places she’s never been. He lavishes the girl with affection, and he’s true to her.”

“He shouldn’t be too intense, though. He should back off sometimes and give her space.”

“Or what? She’ll wail about needing to be alone, then immediately rush into the bed of another guy?”

Mitchell waved his hand between us to interrupt. “Guys, chill. You’re causing a scene.”

I shook my head. “We can’t be friends. Maybe in the distant future, but not yet.”

Dalton sighed, then gave me a contrite look. “We tried. I guess it just wasn’t in the stars.”

People around us were staring, so we quickly got up and made our way to the exit. Dalton had picked up the bill while I was in the washroom, and we both thanked him for lunch.

He put on some sunglasses before reaching for the door handle. He turned to me, his eyes hidden behind the mirrored lenses. “Hey, if you want to get some publicity for your underwear line, look cozy next to me when we step out of here.”

“Right. Of course.” He’d extended his hand toward me, and I took it. We walked out of the restaurant, hand-in-hand, for the benefit of the awaiting paparazzi.

Mitchell trailed along a few feet behind, largely ignored.

Dalton dropped my hand and wrapped his arm around my shoulders—for publicity, of course. And then he held my door open at the car. He twirled me, pressing me against the car frame, and he kissed me. Just one very deliberate kiss, right on the lips. For publicity, of course.

I got in the car, my head spinning from the kiss. It was as though he’d had a venom on his lips, and it was numbing my whole body.

Dalton and Mitchell talked some more about movies on the way back to Mitchell’s place, but I didn’t say a word. I just sat there. Numb. I got out at Mitchell’s and thanked Dalton again for lunch.

As he drove away in his not-too-flashy BMW, Mitchell said, “I have to write about this on my blog. Please don’t judge me, but I stole the napkin he used to wipe his mouth.”

“Too late. I’m judging you.”

“Can I smell your lips? Do they smell like Dalton Deangelo?” He laughed. “Wait, no. You kiss me and transfer some of his kiss to my lips.”

“You are so weird. Maybe that’s why I love you.”

He linked his arm with mine. “Come on in. We only have about eight hours to figure out what we’re wearing to go clubbing tonight.”

“Clubbing again?”

“It’s Friday. Duh.”

He did have a point.

Some time later.

I woke up.

It was dark.

Oh, because my eyes were shut.

OW! Opening my eyes was a bad idea.

Something brushed up against me, beside me. I was on my back, somewhere soft.

Something—an arm—flopped over my chest. A human arm. Not my own.

I cracked open my eyelids. The arm was covered in dark hair, so it wasn’t Mitchell’s blond arm, and it wasn’t the drag queen Luscious Hilda Mae Sparkles’ arm, because he/she used Veet to remove everything, and I do mean
everything
. (We had kind of a nice girl moment getting ready to go out clubbing Friday night, and Luscious showed me this great after-care product for preventing in-growns.)

“Good morning, sunshine,” said the man I was apparently in bed with.

I silently vowed to never drink again, and rolled over to face the end result of a series of questionable decisions, including taking whatever Luscious handed me the night before at the first club. She said it was like a No-Doz, but it was more like a Red Bull crossed with a hand grenade.

At least I still had my clothes on, which meant I probably hadn’t done anything regrettable with…

Keith Raven.

“You look surprised,” he whispered.

“This is just how my face looks in the morning.”

Keith chuckled. “I bet you don’t remember anything you said to me last night.”

“When I drink, I lie. Did I tell you I speak three languages? That’s a lie. You can’t believe anything I say when I’m drinking.”

“What is the Closet of Regret?”

“Um… it’s this second closet I have in my room back home. Someone who lived there before me carved out some walled-off space and put a door on it.” I licked my lips. “Talking is hard work. Anyway, I put some of my regrettable purchases in there.”