Love Me Sweet (A Bell Harbor Novel) (13 page)

“Thanks,” she said to Humphrey. “I might just have a look.”

She reached into the drawer as if it was a snake pit.

“Anything in there for me?” Grant asked, peering over her shoulder.

“Only if you’re into women’s panties,” Humphrey answered.

“Only when I’m invited,” Grant answered.

“Nice,” Delaney murmured. “That’s very nice. Very gentlemanly of you.”

“You guys hungry?” Reggie called out. “We got Hot Pockets, yeah?”

Delaney stared into the mirror in the boogie-woogie room and tried to wrestle her damp hair into a ponytail. Her new skanky-ho bra fit pretty well, and the T-shirt and pants from Humphrey were soft and warm. Certainly better than wet jeans, and she was finally starting to thaw. Now she just needed to call Melody and figure out where the heck to have the Paradise Brothers drop them off.

Grant came in and shut the door just as she was about to dial, and he started to undo his pants.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

He glanced around the room as if wondering who she was talking to. “I’m changing my clothes,” he said when he realized he was it.

“You can’t wait until I’m out of here?”

His smile was classic big bad wolfy. “You’ve seen pretty much all of me, remember?”

She did remember. Very clearly. She remembered what he looked like naked and sudsy, and she damn well remembered what he felt like pressed up against her in that Volkswagen. Her cheeks flamed, and he chuckled.

“Such a Girl Scout,” he whispered and continued to get undressed.

She turned her back to him and dialed Melody’s number. Her sister answered on the fourth ring. “Mel, it’s Lane. I need an update.”

“It’s not a good time right now,” her sister murmured into the phone. “The producers are here and Mom—”

“Delaney, is that you? Hello, darling,” her mother’s voice cut in, bright and chipper, the fake kind of bright and chipper. It was the voice she used when things were terrible but she wanted to pretend they weren’t. “I was just telling Harvey the producer, you remember Harvey our producer, right? Well, I was just telling him how you are out scouting locations for another Master-soaps boutique. Have you had any luck?”

Oh, God. She couldn’t do this fake song and dance right now. Not with Grant in the room. “Hi, Mom.” Delaney used the same fake bright and chipper tone. With any luck, her mother would get the hint and give the phone back to Melody. “Um, yes, I have been doing that little thing. I don’t have much to tell you right now, though.”

Delaney gave a fast glance over her shoulder and saw Grant’s muscular back as he peeled off his shirt. “Let’s talk in a few days. Meanwhile, can I talk to Melody, please?”

Her mother’s voice came through again, but more muffled and low, as if she’d covered her mouth with her hand. “Lane, where are you? Melody said your phone had been stolen. Is everything all right?”

There was legitimate concern in her tone, and Delaney felt her eyes well up with tears. She wanted to tell her mother everything and have a good, long cry, and then her mother would make her cookies and tell her everything would be fine. But it wouldn’t be fine. Her mother couldn’t get that awful sex tape back. She couldn’t make people stop saying mean things on Delaney’s Facebook page, and she couldn’t stop magazines from printing pictures of her. Her mom also couldn’t tell her what to do about incredibly sexy Grant, who was taking his clothes off right behind her in the boogie-woogie room of a tour bus.

He’d stripped down to his boxers. She could see him in the mirror’s reflection, and damn if they weren’t really plaid, just like he’d said.

None of that mattered right now, though. All that mattered at this precise moment was getting her phone, her wallet, and her forty thousand dollars back.

“Yes, I’m fine, Mom, but I really need to talk to Mel. She’s helping me with something important.”

“Oh, well that sounds fabulous, darling.” Fake-voiced mother was back. “Keep in touch, then. I’ll have you just chat with Melody about those details while I fill Harvey in.”

She heard the sounds of a phone being passed and a door shutting, and the clunking of bracelets as her sister came back on the line. “OK, so I just checked your phone’s location about ten minutes ago and it says it’s in Bentley, Illinois, just north of Champaign.”

Delaney watched in the mirror as Grant pulled a white T-shirt over his head and threaded his arms through. He was bigger than Finch, and the shirt filled out.

“Lane? Are you there?”

“What? Oh, yes. I’m here.” She’d been distracted by the plain white tee. “So, Bentley, you said? Does the phone signal seem to be moving?”

“I think so. Still heading south.”

“OK. Thanks. Can you keep an eye on it, and text me at this number if it stops moving or looks like it’s heading someplace other than Memphis?”

“Of course. So where are you guys now? Anywhere close to Bentley?”

“Not exactly. We had—” she was just about to say they’d had an accident, but that would just worry everyone even more. This was Delaney’s mess to clean up as best she could. No sense dragging Melody further into it than necessary. “We had a little car trouble but we’re rolling again. Tell Mom everything is fine.”

“We? As in you and this Grant person? Who is this guy?”

Delaney glanced in the mirror to see him pulling up a pair of dark gray sweatpants. “I told you, he’s a friend from my apartment building. Gotta go, now, OK?”

By the time she’d said her good-byes to her sister, Grant was fully dressed in dry, borrowed clothes and he had their damp things draped over one arm.

“Everything good?” he asked.

“As good as can be expected. Looks like your mom is just north of Champaign and still on the move. Do you think you could try to call her again?”

He nodded. “I’ve left half a dozen messages with her, and I left a message at my aunt’s house because she doesn’t have a cell phone. And you tried to call your own phone, right?”

Delaney nodded. “It went to voice mail.”

“Well, that’s the best we can do, I guess. I told Carl to let me know if he heard anything too. Should I mention again now how sorry I am about all this?”

She knew he was, but of all the people involved in this fiasco, Grant was the only one
not
to be blamed. This was Donna’s fault for taking the money, Boyd’s for releasing that video, and Delaney’s for running away. Oh, to rewind. But if she did, she never would’ve met Grant, and the idea of that caused a little trip and stumble to her heartbeat.

“Stop apologizing. Let’s just hope we get lucky and can still catch up with your mother tonight.”

His laugh was low and suggestive. “I am all about getting lucky.”

But luck was nowhere on their radar.

Chapter 13

“HEY, GUYS,” SAMMY CALLED OUT
from the driver’s seat as Delaney and Grant came out of the back bedroom and headed up the narrow aisle. “This storm is getting worse. I think we should pull over at the next rest stop and call it a night. We’re still on track to make it to Memphis in plenty of time if we get an early start in the morning.”

Delaney’s optimism vanished. So much for catching Grant’s mom sooner rather than later. Her disappointment must have showed. Grant looped an arm around her waist, whispering low, “Lane, I’ll get your money back to you. I promise.”

She blinked fast and nodded. “It’s OK.” It wasn’t, though. Not even a little bit, but what could he do about it?

“I’ll take those wet duds,” Reggie said.

Grant handed them over with a nod. “Thanks.”

“Your lady all right?” she heard Reggie ask.

“She’s just anxious to get her phone back,” Grant answered.

Reggie didn’t respond. He just took the damp clothes and walked back to the rear of the bus.

Minutes later, they pulled into a truck stop parking lot, and before the wheels were done turning, Finch was standing up at the kitchenette, rubbing his hands together.

“Well, looks like it’s time to party. Who wants a drink?” He pulled a fifth of Honey Jack from the cabinet, along with a couple of glasses.

“I’ll take one,” Delaney said immediately. She’d have just one. Facing a day-long bus ride tomorrow was going to be bad enough. Facing it with a hangover would be unbearable, but she needed something to fend off her distress. Hopefully this drink would cheer her up and not send her into the boogie-woogie room crying like a little girl. Delaney Masterson was not a crier.

Drinks were poured, and soon they were all sitting on the couches along either side of the bus and getting acquainted. She took a sip of the whiskey, and the heat was instantaneous and welcome.

Sammy, Finch, and Humphrey were on one side, and Delaney sat between Grant and Reggie on the other. Judging from appearances, Finch and Reggie were truly brothers, but the other two were clearly no relation.

“So, besides looking for a lost cell phone, what’s your story? Where are you guys from?” Finch asked.

Grant stretched, and rested his arm along the back of the sofa, letting one hand dangle over her shoulder. She leaned into him, liking it.

“I’m originally from Bell Harbor, Michigan,” he said. “I was born there, but more recently I was based out of Los Angeles.”

“Ah, Los Angeles,” Reggie said in a poor rendition of a Latino accent. “City of Angels, yeah?”

“Hardly,” Grant answered. “No angels around there that I could find. Just a lot of false perfection. Everything there is so glossy. Everybody is a voyeur, but nothing you see is real. Just a bunch of D-list celebrities saying
look at me
.”

Delaney felt a little dizzy, and it wasn’t from the whiskey. Her whole job revolved around LA glitz and gloss and voyeurism. But she wasn’t on the D-list. Worse than that. She was a
stylist
for the D-list.

“I didn’t spend much time in the city,” Grant added. “I travel mostly.”

“In a Volkswagen?” Humphrey asked, the guitar pick still flicking over his fingers.

Grant chuckled. “No, that’s Elaine’s car. You ever heard of
One Man, One Planet
?”

“Hells, yeah!” Humphrey exclaimed. “I love that show.”

“I’m a coproducer and the director of photography. Well, I was. I just quit.” He cocked his head. “And it
still
feels good saying that.”

“That’s the show with Rock Blakestone, yeah?” Reggie asked.

“Blake Rockstone,” Humphrey corrected him before Grant had the chance.

“Whatever. That guy is badass.” Reggie lifted his glass. “Here is to the badassery of Blake Rockstone.”

Grant shook his head. “Can’t drink to that. Blake would like you to think he’s a badass, but trust me, the only thing bad is his attitude. And his real name is Ned Beidelman. He’s an asshole. It feels good saying
that
too.” Then he took a drink.

Humphrey fell back against the cushion, both hands pressed against his chest in a display of mock agony. “Blake Rockstone is an asshole? No, say it ain’t so. I love that guy. Y’all remember that episode where he wrestles the alligator? Man, I thought for sure he was a goner.”

Grant shook his head. “That poor alligator. The thing was half dead, shot up with so many sedatives we thought we wouldn’t be able to revive it.”

“I remember that episode,” Reggie said. “Looked like the gator was fighting him pretty hard, yeah?”

Grant took another drink. “The assistant director put bungee cords on the poor thing’s back legs so they could make it twist and turn. Couple of poor sap production assistants were in charge of jerking it around to make it look ferocious. Add a few close-up shots and a little editing, and poof.” He spread his fingers wide. “Cinema magic. To the untrained eye, Blake Rockstone dry humping a sleeping animal looks pretty intense. That’s why I quit.”

“Because of the bestiality?” Finch asked.

Grant chuckled. “Yes, that, and the way it’s edited to manipulate the audience. When we first started the show, we had just one or two cameras. We were right in on the action. We had to be or we’d miss the shot, but now it’s too slick. There’s nothing authentic about it. Just like LA, I guess.”

Delaney took a big swallow of her drink. It burned, but not as much as Grant’s obvious disdain for television fakery, which she was very familiar with.
Pop Rocks
was full of it, thanks to sound bites and clever editing. In one episode, they’d made it seem like Melody had broken her foot, when in reality all she’d done was stub her toe. And in another episode, a well-articulated discussion about gun control was made to look like a
heated argument
between her and Roxanne about where to go to lunch. Every conversation she’d had on camera had been somehow twisted into something different. The trivial became significant, while the substance was boiled down to nuggets.

Delaney gave a little hiccup after swallowing the whiskey, and Grant squeezed her shoulder. She didn’t look his way. She didn’t dare. She just pulled her bangs down over her forehead.

“So you quit. What now?” Finch asked. “What does an ex-director of photography do when he’s out of work?”

“Well, if I can get the money Blake owes me, I’ve been kicking around this idea for a new show.”

Now she looked at him. “New show? What kind of show?”

He ran a hand over his jaw, as if he wasn’t fully on board with sharing, but then he started talking and his enthusiasm became evident. “Kind of an extreme makeover show, only with charities. Traveling all over, I’ve seen some truly devastated areas. The kind of places most people don’t want to think about. We’re pretty desensitized to seeing human suffering on a TV screen. You know, you hear about a village of a hundred hungry kids, and you think, ‘Oh, that’s so sad, but it’s too big a problem for me to solve.’ So, my idea is to personalize it. Take a different charity each week and do a feature about just one person or one family who that organization has helped. I think if people can see how even a little participation can impact the life of a real person, they’d be more apt to get involved. I mean, if you saw one hungry kid crying on the street in your neighborhood, you’d never forget it, right?”

They all nodded, including Delaney.

“So, that’s my idea. Follow a different charity each week, show what kind of conditions some people are forced to live in, and provide the average urban dweller with a tangible method of helping. I don’t want to manipulate things in any way, just give an authentic view of people’s individual circumstances and hope it’s motivational.”

“That’s a cool idea,” Finch said. “I’d watch that.”

Grant looked over at him. “Would you? Some of the outreach workers I met in the Philippines triggered this idea. I was there right after a hurricane and I was so impressed with the way they pulled together to get things done. I wanted to do a documentary about it but my producers thought it would be depressing. I guess watching Blake try to shake a scorpion out of his sleeping bag is better television than saving a kid’s life.”

He took a swig from his glass and added, “All you see on American television is the same kind of beautiful people doing the same kind of irrelevant shit, over and over. It’s boring. I think people are ready for something with a little more substance.”

Beautiful people? Irrelevant shit. He was describing
Pop Rocks
again. He just didn’t know it. But his idea for a show was brilliant. And full of heart. When it came right down to it, Grant Connelly was sentimental.

“I love that idea,” she said, locking him in her gaze. She wanted to kiss him right then and there. And she would have too, except Reggie cleared his throat loudly and stood up, breaking the spell.

“I could use another drink, yeah? Finch, get me more whiskey.”

“So, who wants to play strip poker?” Reggie asked after two or three more drinks had gone down the hatch and the night’s conversation had covered everything from trends in music to the best place to get fried calamari, from favorite pagan holidays to where one might find the most radical wave for surfing. It was close to midnight and Grant was feeling the one-two punch of fatigue and booze. He’d stopped drinking after the second glass of whiskey, but since he’d stayed up late last night with his family after Tyler’s wedding and spent much of today chasing down his mother, he was tired. Elaine was leaning against him, still nursing that first drink. Smart woman.

“Anyone, strip poker?” Reggie asked again, grinning at the only woman on the bus.

Elaine shook her head but smiled. “No, thanks. I’d hate to lose the clothes that Humphrey so generously offered me.”

“No one wants to see your hairy ass, Reg,” said Finch, standing up. “And I’m ready for some shut-eye.”

Sammy stood at the same time. “That’s it for me too, folks. I got a long day of driving ahead of me tomorrow.” He moseyed on past the rest of them and went into the spatially challenged bathroom.

Reggie tossed back the rest of his drink. “All right, but, Elaine, consider this an opportunity missed. I play cards lousy and you could’ve had me naked in just a couple of rounds.”

Grant slid his arm around her shoulders again. He knew the kind of guy this Reggie was, casting a wide net with his over-the-top flirtation. Blake was the same sort, just looking for a vulnerable woman to come along and take that bait. The kind of woman swayed by celebrity propaganda and a clever line. Elaine seemed too smart to fall for Reggie’s good ole country boy persona, but then again, chicks always seemed to dig musicians.

Grant stood and pulled her up with him. “Thanks again for housing us tonight, guys. We really appreciate it.”

Reggie slapped him on the back good-naturedly. “No sweat, man.
Mi casa es su casa.
Or . . . I guess,
mi bus-o es su bus-o
, yeah? Anyway, you need anything, let me know. We got extra toothbrushes and stuff in the bathroom. Help yourself.”

“Thank you,” Elaine said. “You’ve all been so great.”

“My pleasure, honeybun.”

She turned to walk down the aisle and Reggie caught Grant by the sleeve. “Seriously, anything you need, we got. Ibuprofen, water bottles.” He lowered his voice. “Rubbers, lubricant. It’s all in the drawers in the boogie-woogie room.”

Grant let out a chuff of laughter, even if Reggie was as obnoxious as hell. This bus sure was a one-stop party shop, but he’d had a little too much whiskey and his head was foggy, not that he thought for a minute that Elaine would go for it anyway.

And he was right. He walked into the bedroom after his turn in the bathroom and closed the plastic accordion door behind him. The space was just big enough for a double-sized mattress, one nightstand—not to be confused with a one-night stand—and a closet barely deep enough to hold two shirts. One, if it was fleece. The room was surrounded by long, horizontal windows covered in short, green curtains, and a modest amount of light came from a single-bulb lamp. A couple of faded quilts sat in a pile on top of dingy beige sheets, but Elaine was standing off to one side, staring at the bed like it was littered with roadkill.