We Are Made of Stardust - Peaches Monroe #1 (29 page)

As she talked, I dumped the pens out of the can and started sorting them. “I’m not a person to them, am I? You know what? Seriously, fuck the internet and everyone on it. Bunch of losers need to get their own lives.”

Shayla gasped. “Noooo! You love the internet!” More keyboard tapping. “Oh, you’re a meme, apparently. Like with the funny text over your photo.”

“Fuck me!”

She giggled.

I sorted the pens on the counter by color and shape, the yellow vintage phone cradled between my ear and shoulder.

“Any good ones?” I asked.

“The usual assortment. Hah! That one’s good. It says, ‘My peaches. Let me show you them.’"

“People suck! They suck so hard right now.”

“Did he call you back?”

“No,” I said, then I caught her up on my run-in with Alexis at Java Jones before work.

She said, “That girl needs to leave town, and find a new career.”

A male customer in a business suit came in, so I quickly said goodbye to Shayla and hung up the phone.

The man came right up to the counter and lay a folder on the surface between us.

“I have something for you to sign,” he said.

“Get out!” I pointed to the front door. “I’m not signing some skeevy printed-out photo of me in my bra, you molestor. Those photos were taken without my consent. Actually, give me your name, and I’ll eventually get around to suing you, as well.”

He chuckled, as amused as I was annoyed. “I work for Dalton Deangelo, and I’ve come to collect your signature for an NDA. That’s a non-disclosure agreement. This is a very common and completely normal protocol with actors.”

My jaw dropped open with shock. I was half-naked on the internet, and now this?”

“Oh, hell, no,” I said. “There’s the door. Don’t let it hit you too hard on the ass on your way out.”

“I also come bearing…” He shoved an open envelope full of crisp bills—a money sandwich—my way. “Incentive,” he finished.

“You brought a bribe, to get me to sign a piece of paper to not say whatever, when I was already preparing to not say a word, for no additional fee?”

“Good! You’re a smart girl. We won’t have to spend long going over the terms.”

“Is this happening because my tits are all over the internet now? Plus that badly-edited video where it seems like I’m admitting to sleeping with Dalton? Because I’m afraid the horses have left the barn.”

“Horses and barns notwithstanding, we would prefer things do not escalate.”

I sighed and looked around me, at all the books lovingly stacked on bookshelves all the way up to the ceiling. So many words, so much wisdom, and what did I know? Nothing.

I thought of phoning my father, who was just down the street. He’d negotiated plenty of contracts, and he’d know what to do.

The man opened the folder to show me the NDA was a “short” three pages, and “not too scary.”

“You’re shushing me,” I said. “I don’t like being shushed. I can’t believe Dalton would do this to me.”

The man didn’t reply.

“Was this all his idea?” I asked. “Does he want me to sign this? Is that why he hasn’t called me back?”

The man withdrew a fancy pen from within his suit jacket and handed it to me.

“This need be but a simple matter,” he said.

My blood was rushing into my head, making it harder for me to think straight. I certainly wasn’t going to blab about Dalton to anyone, so what difference did it make if I signed the paper?

I took the pen and initialed the boxes on each page, then signed and dated the back page.

He handed me the envelope of cash, a satisfied smile on his face. “Don’t spend it all in one place,” he said.

“I don’t want the money. I signed that for Dalton’s peace of mind. You’ll tell him that, won’t you?” I pushed the envelope across the counter, back his way. “I really don’t want this cash.”

“Then give it to charity.” He handed me a copy for my own records, and walked back out the door. He was so smooth, the bells didn’t even jingle.

For the rest of the morning, I organized the shelves and helped book customers in the regular fashion, but nothing felt regular. At every moment, I was sure if I turned around, there’d be people watching me, and people with cameras just outside the window.

They say when you shiver for no reason, it’s because someone’s walking over your future grave. What do they call that unsettling shivery feeling you have, when you know the world is talking about you on the internet? Besides paranoia?

Whatever it was, the only cure was to keep myself busy.

I probably would have gone completely bonkers by the end of the day, if Dalton hadn’t phoned me around lunch time.

“Are you through with me?” I asked.

“That depends on how angry you are, and if you’re through with me.”

I sighed. “It’s good to hear your voice.”

“The NDA was not my idea, but it is standard. And I wanted to be sure everything was taken care of for tonight.”

“Tonight?” A warm feeling was creeping through my body, which was a welcome relief from all the crazy.

“Vanity Fair is doing a photo shoot with me tonight. It’s all happening around sunset, after we wrap shooting for the day. It’s going to be a long day for us, but I was hoping you’d come along and be my girl.”

I didn’t say anything in response, because I was too busy smiling.
Be his girl?

He continued, “I’d love you to meet the director. He’s a great guy, plus the rest of the crew. It’s a small production, but full of talent.”

“Are they all standing around you now?”

He laughed. “Actually, I’m alone. And I have another favor to ask you, but I’ll wait until you’re here, because I’m more convincing in person.”

“You sure are.”

“But when I turn my back, you disappear.”

“About Saturday,” I said. “I’m sorry I ran off like that after you told me your secret. You took me by surprise.”

“I’d rather not discuss that matter,” he said curtly.

“Oh.” Now I felt like a jerkbag for bringing it up.

Gently, he said, “Vern showed me a bit of what’s going around with your pictures today. I’m really sorry that’s your first taste of the spotlight. It hurts like a motherfucker punching you in the guts with a knuckle full of rings, but you get used to it.”

“I guess the money helps.” As soon as I uttered the phrase, I regretted it. I hadn’t meant the money I got for signing the NDA, but earnings in general, from being a star. I opened my mouth to explain, but he cut me off.

“Hey!” he said. “I’m holding everyone up. I have to run, but I’ll send Vern to pick you up at your house at eight. Sound good?”

He barely waited for me to agree, and he was gone.

~

Here’s the problem with every woman’s wardrobe:

The person who buys the clothes is not the same person who later has to wear them.

Perhaps it’s a brain disorder? A type of split personality? Rampant, unfettered optimism?

I swear the girl who buys my clothes weighs about ten pounds less, and stands two inches shorter. Why else can the rise of my pants and the hem of my shirt not meet somewhere over top my middle? Perhaps with a slight overlap?

I know what you’re thinking:
Peaches Monroe, you wash your clothes in hot water.

But I don’t! Our washing machine isn’t even capable of washing on hot, because it’s not hooked up to the tank. And I don’t use the dryer, choosing instead to string up all my clothes on an indoor drying rack.

With few viable options for attending a
Vanity fucking Fair
photo shoot, I finally settled on a pair of jean shorts, paired with my layered black and white camisole, and then my green lace tank top on top. The front of everything dipped down to show an appealing view of my peaches, even if the back view was nothing to write blog posts about. I topped the outfit with blue-framed sunglasses.

“Too casual?” I asked Shayla.

“You look like you’re going to the beach.”

“Right.” I switched my black sandals for a pair of flats with a floral pattern. Nothing I wore matched anything else, and for some reason this struck me as funny. It was the exact opposite of the way refined older ladies dressed, with everything in matched sets.

“Did you pack some condoms in your purse?” Shayla asked. We were standing in the kitchen, and I was picking sliced vegetables off the cutting board as she sliced them for her big salad.

“Condoms, yes. And a tube of your ass lube,” I joked.

“That’s too bad. I was planning to stick things up my ass tonight.” She held up a large zucchini from Mr. Galloway’s garden.

“Right, vegetables. And definitely not your boss.”

She grimaced. “We’re off again. He’s trying to have a baby with his wife, and he needs to reserve all his seed.”

“His
seed
? If he calls it that, there’s the first reason you shouldn’t be fucking him.”

“Who should I be fucking?”

“Call Golden’s brother Garret and see if the back acne’s cleared up.”

“He’s dating Chantalle Hart. Didn’t you know? Pretty casual, but Golden walked in on them going at it in their parents’ bed.”

“Fuck me. Why always the parents’ bed? What is wrong with people?”

“Taboo is fun.”

“But why?”

She shrugged. “Must be some human drive, to fuck everything, everywhere. Our horny ancestors had more babies than the ones who had a bunch of hang-ups. We come from a long line of horny people with no self-control.”

“One of them being our great-grandfather.”

She grinned. “God bless his horny soul, or none of us would be here today.”

“And this house would be on Larch Street, not Lurch Street.”

“Fucking makes the world go round.” She grabbed a cherry tomato and closed her eyes as she chewed it. My mouth watered, imagining the soft flesh bursting in my mouth.

“Enjoy your salad,” I said.

“Enjoy your cock,” she replied.

“I’d share if I could.”

“Ugh. I need to get laid.”

The doorbell rang, and we both leaned to peer up the hall at the window, where butler Vern was silhouetted against the tall window next to the front door.

“He’s gay,” I said.

“His loss.” She popped another tomato into her mouth.

~

Vern was all smiles and chuckles as he held open the door of the car for me.

“What’s shakin’?” I asked. “Are you excited about this photo shoot thing?”

“I guess.” He stood at my door for a moment, like he wanted to ask me something, then he shook his head and gently closed my door.

Once we were driving, I pressed the green button overhead to speak to him. “Thanks for coming to pick me up,” I said.

“That’s my job, miss.”

“I appreciate it, though. You make me feel like a lady, even though I’m wearing jean shorts.”

“Everyone here is so nice,” he said over the speaker. “I’ve been here almost two weeks now. I thought I’d get tired of all the trees and nature, but now I don’t know if I’ll be able to leave. I’ve made some friends, thanks to your suggestion.”

“I’d offer you a job being my butler, but I think Dalton would be mad.”

“Oh, miss, I don’t think you could ever do anything to make Mr. Deangelo angry. He really likes you.”

“Thank you.” Damn. If making me like Dalton even more was part of his job, he sure was good at it.

We drove for a ways, past Dragonfly Lake and then still a bit farther. The car turned onto an access road with a metal gate, the upper arch reading Double D Ranch in wrought iron letters, with horse shoes on either side.

I hugged my chest and smiled at the quiet joke that my own Double Ds were getting their very own ranch. A few years back, I’d looked online and discovered there were a number of ranches across America named Double D. The ranch names came from the brands the farmers used to put on their cattle, back in the Wild West days, and then from the time of community pastures.

Another thought occurred to me: Dalton Deangelo was also a Double D. So, that was a funny coincidence.

We parked next to a fence, where some horses grazing on the other side eyed us with curiosity.

I stepped out of the car and went to pet the gorgeous beasts. Most of them had glossy red-brown coats plus black manes and tales. One horse with a white lighting stripe down her face took a real liking to me, smelling deeply along the side of my head and brushing her velvet lips against my cheek.

Vern joined me in petting the horses, his eyes wide and his hands timid. He squealed as a young colt reached his head through the fence to nibble at his black trousers.

The horses paused as a group, sniffing the air. I heard the sound of an engine, then turned to see a helicopter was approaching. The horses snorted and took off at a gallop, disappearing over a hill.

The helicopter landed, whipping up dust from the dry, dirt road. A group of four people stepped out, and then the helicopter lifted up again and flew off.

“That’s the photographer,” Vern said to me. “And her three assistants. They aren't staying here tonight, as far as I know.” He waved toward the largest building nearby, a thing one might be tempted to call a cabin, as it was apparently made from logs. The enormous ranch house really was more of a castle, by the size of it.

Vern saw me looking and waved to the ranch house, explaining, “Some of the filming takes place inside there, but we’ve also got a smaller cabin at the back, and that’s where this evening’s photo shoot is happening.”

I turned and held my hand up to block the glare of the sun. “We’re losing light, so I guess it’s happening soon?”

“It sure is. Follow me.”

There were two dozen vehicles parked along the front road, and close to a hundred people milling about, all talking on phones or walkie talkies and looking really busy and annoyed.

Vern pointed out people and explained to me which ones were part of the indie film crew versus who was there for the Vanity Fair shoot. I was beyond relieved to have him at my side, explaining everything.

I spotted some attractive young women who weren’t looking busy or annoyed, but enjoying some late-day sunshine on lounge chairs. “Who are they?”

“Extras. They’re only in a scene or two, but they’re kept around so the director has some tail to chase around and doesn’t bother the leading ladies.”