Say You Love Her, An L.A. Love Story (5 page)

Monroe grabs me by the arm. “Wait, where are you going?” She pulls me back toward the bed.

“Home.” Listening to her talk about Maggie and Vincent has pissed me off. I don’t know why. It just has.
 

“I thought you were going to stay.”

“I can’t.”

“Charlie,” she says and lifts an eyebrow. “Just remember that she’s Daisy’s sister.
Her
sister.”
 

“What is this obsession you have with Angelina and me? I’m not going to fuck her.” Although I want to.

She looks at me with narrowed eyes but doesn’t say a word. I lift my eyebrows, challenging her.
 

“Just be careful,” she says.

“You too.” I kiss her on the forehead and get the hell out of there.

I get into my car and rev the engine. I’m thinking about driving quickly all the way home. Before Monday, I would’ve. Hell, before Monday, I would’ve spent the night with Monroe. Could she really pick up on my attraction to Angelina when we were rewriting the script? Angelina makes my heart beat faster. My head spins if she gets too close. Maybe it’s because she favors Daisy. It’s irrational to go from obsessing over one chick to fixating on her sister.
 

I cruise all the way home. I pull up in the garage, close it, and sit still, waiting until the automatic lights turn off. I can think much better in the darkness. I thought Monroe was the one, but she’s not. I like fucking her though, and we’ll probably do it again. Or maybe not. And, shit, I have to get rid of this giddy energy that’s trapped inside my chest. I look towards the bedroom where Angelina sleeps. She’s inside my house—the one woman who came out of nowhere to make shit more complicated.

I take off my shoes at the door and tiptoe through the hallway. This shit is laughable. It’s as though I’m a cheating husband afraid of getting caught by his clueless wife. The light is off in Angelina’s room. I put my ear on the door to listen. I hear her breathing. She’s sleeping.
 

I undress and get into bed. I look out the window. I’ve just noticed that a bright moon hangs south. Rays of light streak across the ocean. I’m restless, but I close my eyes and try to get some sleep.

The scent of blueberry pancakes fuses with the tepid air flowing out of the vents. I roll over onto my back and rub my eyes before opening them. It’s daytime already. I scramble to sit and peer at the wall clock above the TV cabinet. It’s ten thirty. I jump into a pair of pajama pants and T-shirt, grab my cell phone, and head to the kitchen. James, my cook, has made breakfast. The door to the room where Angelina slept is open, and she’s not in there. For a moment I’m gripped by a feeling of loss. Then I remember, her car is back at the lot and unless she called a cab, she’s more than likely still here. I take a moment to thank circumstances for being on my side.

When I make it to the kitchen, Angelina is at the table with her bare legs crossed in the chair. She’s wearing a short dress that shows more skin than I can handle. Her hair is loose. It’s black, long, and wavy. She’s a breath of fresh air, sitting there holding the
Times
in front of her face.

“Do you mind that I read this before you got a crack at it?” she asks, shaking the newspaper.

“No problem,” I say, relieved that she’s made herself comfortable. I don’t see a plate in front of her. “Did you eat?”

“Two hours ago. James and I had this discussion about an article on how the FDA is cracking down on partially hydrogenated oils. He had some very strong opinions being a cook and all. He’s a deep guy. I wish I could afford him.”

I snicker. She’s funny. “You’ve been sitting here for two hours.”

“A little bit longer than that.”

“Did you do the crossword?”
 

She grimaces. “No, why?”

“Because of that.” I point to a pen on the table in front of her.
 

Angelina looks down. “No, I…” Watching her smile is like having a religious experience. “I have a few bad habits and I have to use a pen, pencil, crayon, marker, whatever’s around that I can write with for one of them.”

I sit down across from her. “Are you a graffiti artist?”

Angelina chuckles. She has a cute laugh. “Kind of.” She tosses the page she’d been reading across the table.

I narrow one eye curiously and open the sheet. “Water. Sun. Flesh. Blood. I Soar,” I say, reading the handwritten words at the top corner of page seven. “Are you a poet?”
 

“I wouldn’t do the poets the dishonor by claiming to be one.” Again, I’m hypnotized by her smile. “What about you? Do you play that?”

She motions toward my Gibson guitar, Betty, that’s propped up in the corner. I keep it in the dining room because sometimes I play when I have company. “Yeah, you want to hear her?”

“Her?” She’s amused.

“Betty.”

“You call your guitar Betty?”

“And she calls me daddy.”

I love that I’m the one who’s keeping that smile on her face.

“Then by all means, daddy, play her for me,” she croons.
 

Damn it, she’s turning me on. If I stand up she’ll get a look at the effect she’s having on me. Luckily my cell phone rings. I sigh in relief and peek at the name on the screen. It’s Jack. I snatch the phone up off the table. “What do you want?”
 

“Is Angelina still working with you?”
 

I glance at her. She’s still smiling. “Yes. Why do you ask?”

“Daisy’s been trying to reach her all morning.”

“She’s reachable.”

“Is she with you?” Jack is snippy.

“Yes, she is. She’s sitting here.”

There’s a long moment of deathly silence. I already know what’s coming next. He explodes just as I expected. “Why the hell didn’t you just say that?”
 

“I’m saying it now. She’s sitting across the table. She spent the night.”

 
“Did you fuck her? You’d better not have.”

Angelina bursts out laughing. I just realize that I’ve been avoiding eye contact with her since I answered the phone. Her hand is over her mouth, her eyes wide with surprise. She must’ve heard Jack yelling my ear off.

“No, I didn’t,” I say. “You want to talk to her or what?”

“Daisy does,” he says.

“What the hell is wrong with you? Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed?”
 

“No! I just want to know what the hell Angelina’s doing at your house.”
 

“We worked late, and so she stayed with me.”

I can hear Daisy screeching in the background. What do they think? I’m the Big Bad Wolf that’s going to eat poor Goldilocks alive?

Angelina motions for the phone. I happily hand it over.
 

“Belmont,” she says and rolls her eyes. “Oh, Daisy. Yes, it’s me.”
 

She spends the next few minutes explaining how she ended up in the confines of my house while avoiding my bed. After convincing her sister that nothing sexual happened between us and that I’m the perfect gentleman, she sits and listens to whatever Daisy has to say. Her expression transforms from amusement to dismay. I wonder if Daisy’s warning her about me. But then Angelina’s eyes tear up.
 

“One second, Daisy,” she says and stands. “Do you mind if I take this call in the bedroom?” she asks me.

I also stand up. “Is everything okay?”

She shakes her head. “But could I, please? It’s your phone.”

“Of course,” I say. She’s out in a flash. I couldn’t stop myself from checking out her ass as she went. What the hell is wrong with me? But I did notice that divine split right down the middle that separates her ass cheeks.

I make myself a plate. James and I have a system. He comes in once in the morning and once in the afternoon, makes what’s on the menu for the day, puts the food in warmers, and leaves. I don’t make him wait around for me because I’m not on a schedule. I hate schedules. When Jack and I were younger our father made us do everything according to a schedule. He was a controlling bastard. Jack and I also had to choose one academic and one athletic extracurricular activity to get involved in. I chose Mock Trial for academic. Anne Spears, who was the president of the club, liked me—hell, loved me. I used to make out with her and dry hump her, and as a reward she verified my involvement all the way through high school. And then, I chose soccer for Charlie Lord the Great’s athletic requirement. Jason Loredo, the captain of the team, was a buddy of mine. He’d let me kick the ball every now and then during a game when the old man showed up just to check on me. I bet he wished he had named Jack after him instead of me. I came this close to bursting the old man’s bubble by telling him what his favorite son was really doing in L.A. and then in Las Vegas. He was boning lonely, neglected, powerful chicks. He didn’t do it for the money though; he did it for clout. I would say that it paid off in the end. This is the kind of shit I spend a lot of time mulling over. It gets me nowhere in the end but mad as hell.

Wednesday’s breakfast is always the same: blueberry pancakes, turkey bacon, and fresh berries. Angelina has been gone for a long time. I want to go see how she’s doing, but that would be presumptuous of me. She left because she wanted to keep private whatever Daisy said to make her eyes watery. Who the hell am I kidding anyway? I’m not the guy you lean on when shit goes bad. So I set my plate on the table and swipe Betty out of the corner to play a tune inspired by my houseguest.
 

Finally she reappears, and I stop playing. She has her overnight bag, and she’s put on those leggings she wore yesterday under her short dress. Her eyes are red and the skin of her face is damp. “My mother’s taken a turn for the worse. I have to go.”

I rise to my feet. “Where are you going?”

“Home. Louisiana.”

“Is Daisy going with you?”

“She can’t right now.”

“Okay then.” I scratch the back of my neck. “Give me fifteen minutes, and I’ll go with you.”

She lets out a chuckle. “Are you kidding me?”

“We’re family.”

Her eyes skew. “You don’t have to do this, Charlie. Don’t you have a movie to make?” She shakes her head as though she’s already decided to fly solo.
 

I start to speak but hesitate. Should I say what’s on my mind? After a moment, I say, “I want to do this.” I smirk to lighten her mood. “Plus, you can fly out of Santa Monica with me. Jack’s jet is parked in LAX, and I have better flight attendants.”
 

“How did you know he offered to fly me in his private airplane?”

“Because for Jack that’s the only way to fly.”

Angelina snorts. I’m glad I can get her to laugh, but she still looks perplexed by my offer. I’m expecting her to turn me down. Hell, it’s an audacious self-invite.

“But why do you want to do this?” she finally asks.
 

“I already said it. We’re family.” That’s a boldfaced lie.
 

She shakes her head. “Are you and Belmont really for real?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re both so accommodating and nice, even to me, his wife’s bastard half-sister. I mean, you aren’t even related to me, not really.”

“So is that a yes?” I ask eagerly because that’s what it sounds like.

She shrugs. “It’s a yes. But I have to go home and pack some things first.” And then, she smiles, which is icing on the cake.

Chapter 4

The Other LA

I end a call with Pearl. My instructions to her were clear. Don’t call me unless the sky is falling. If I don’t answer, leave a message. She asked where I was going, and I told her on a quick business trip. I didn’t call Monroe—no need to open that can of worms. Plus, I’m wary of what she might do after I tell her that I’m with Angelina.
 

Angelina and I haven’t run out of stuff to talk about. Her studio apartment is small. She has a tiny kitchen, a sleigh bed, two nightstands, a dresser, a desk, and a stand with a small flat-screen TV on top. She does have a view of a stale ocean, which is why the space doesn’t feel too cramped.

She pulls a suitcase out from under the bed and darts into the closet.

“You have one more week here, right?” I ask.

“Yep.”

“Do you have another gig lined up?”

“What?” Her voice sounds muffled.

“Do you have another job lined up?”

“Wait, give me a second.”

I wonder what she’s doing in there. Before I can sneak a peek she’s out and wearing a long, tight light blue dress. Her ass, her sloped tits, and the way she put her hair up to show off her collarbone make a sudden impact on my dick.

“You changed clothes,” I say, out of breath.

She stops folding a black dress like the one she has on to scrutinize me. After a few beats, she chuckles.
 

I grimace. “What’s funny?”

“You just look so out of place in here. You have a presence about you.” Hell, so does she.

“Is that good or bad?”

She shrugs. “It depends on who’s watching.”

“You’re watching me now.”
 

“I guess I am.” She takes a pair of black lace panties out of the drawer and twirls them around her finger as she ponders. I don’t think she’s aware of what she’s doing to me. “It’s kind of good. Especially since you have an underdeveloped ego.”

“I’m not sure how I should take that,” I say, wondering what the hell she meant by “underdeveloped ego.” And she hasn’t stopped twirling those panties either. All I want is to see them on her and then peel them off with my teeth and my tongue.

“Well, look at you.” Good. She put the panties in the suitcase. “Your outfit probably cost more than my rent.”

I look at myself. I never think about how much I spend on clothes. I only shop at one place—Barneys in New York—and only maybe three or four times a year. Sometimes I get an email informing me they have a new arrival that I might like. I take a look at the picture. If I like it, I tell them and they send it. I’m not out of touch. I know most of the world doesn’t have this privilege, which is something I’ve been equally running from and dependent upon my whole life. My slacks are gray and from Hugo Boss. The shirt is a manly orange and is from Armani’s casual collection. At least that’s what the salesgirl told me. I bought the pants and shirt because they looked good and felt comfortable. I shop at Barneys because they make it easy.