Midnight Blue

Blake stood up, stalking to the door. He looked like he was going to war, every muscle in his body tight with frayed nerves. Blake and Jenna never saw eye to eye, and I never saw the point in making them play nicely. I heard murmurs from the entrance. Growls, huffs, and then the metallic chuckle Jenna produced when she wanted to spit in your face. A few seconds later, they both marched in, a third person trailing behind them.

A girl.

A girl I didn’t know.

Another bloody babysitter.

She floated into the apartment, on the shiny dark wood, the blond hue of the many lamps in the room illuminating her teardrop-shaped face, and all I could think about was how fast I was going to get rid of her arse. She looked…fine. Not my taste. Jenna went for the ones who weren’t quite so pretty as to make me want to bang them harder than the bottom of a ketchup bottle, but still pretty enough for me to tolerate. This one was significantly smaller than a normal human being. Thumbelina-tiny, with olive skin, flat chest, and pointy little nose. Long icy-blue hair—if I wanted a hipster, I’d pluck one from the thousands of screaming fans trying to smuggle their way backstage—and I wasn’t entirely sure what she was wearing, but I found it senseless to believe she actually paid for it. A vintage orange dress with flared cuffs and floral embroidery barely covered her knobby knees. Why the fuck did I know what any of these terms meant, you might wonder? Because my soulless arse did Armani and Balmain campaigns to support a cocaine habit that made Charlie Sheen look like a Boy Scout.

Welcome to my mess, New Girl. It’s a bumpy ride from here on out.

I took another swig of my Coke, then ground my teeth. New Girl was going to be Old News in a week, max, just like the rest of the sitters who’d accepted the position before her. I’d make sure of it. My thumb almost pressed Fallon’s name—almost—before I tucked the phone into my back pocket with a frown.

Not now.

Not here.

Not in front of all these wankers.

Jenna, the number one ballbuster in North America, folded her arms over her chest and awarded me with a look that could freeze hell and its neighboring sections. “Hello, Al. Are you going to continue the fart-fest on the sofa or come say hello to your new employee?”

I respected Jenna. She was the one Suit who’d never ask for a sexual favor or for a photo-op or for a fucking pony for her birthday. Which was why I’d agreed to her attaching a nanny for “Letters from the Dead” in the first place. The position was supposed to have been filled two months ago when I initially left rehab, but of course, I had to make the first nine quit in tears, and one moved to another state in a bid to put some space between us. I’d hoped that by the eighth, Jenna would give up on the idea altogether, but Jenna wasn’t much of a quitter.

Thing was, I was a stubborn bastard, too.

Reluctantly, I scraped my arse from the settee, ambling in their direction.

“For the record”—I puffed my cigarette, shotgunning it from my nostrils like an angry bull—“Alfie is the one in charge of the questionable aroma. He can’t stay away from Mexican food when in L.A.”

“Damn right, I can’t.” Alfie cackled from the sofa, peppering the sentence with a burp. “Tacos for World Peace! I should start a nonprofit organization.”

I offered New Girl my hand. I was six something. She was five nothing. She was practically at eye level with my crotch, which would have been very convenient if it wasn’t for the fact I wanted nothing to do with her. She dragged her head up to meet my gaze. Her eyes, a different shade of blue from her hair, were dark. And wild. Deep like a well-written riff.

Not completely bland. Good for you, love.

“Alex Winslow.”

“Indie Bellamy.”

“Your name is Indie?” My eyes ran her length from the floor up. Her tiny, sweaty palm tried to squeeze my big, cold one.

“Indigo. After the color.”

“Hardly making it better,” I quipped. She’d officially lost my attention, though, and I tossed the still-lit fag out the open window and propped my forearm against the wall, mentally rummaging my mind to find what I wanted to ask Jenna about. Something about a commercial I was shooting mid-year. Versace? Pepsi? Like it made any difference.

“Glad you think so. I’ve been anxiously waiting to hear what you think of my name,” Indie said.

She was still here.

She was still here, and she’d answered back.

What the fuck?

Jenna shifted in my peripheral, scooping her mobile from her Hermès bag and pointing between us with the device. “You two, get to know each other, but not too well, and definitely with your clothes still on. I have a phone call to make. Be right back.” Her heels punctuated the floor with noisy thwacks! all the way to the patio.