Fake (West Hollywood 1) - Page 43
Distraction really was key. If I kept my mind on other things, then the darkness and the memories of today didn’t press in on me so much.
Jack started playing an old Crowded House song.
Which was about when I noticed the flowers on the side table. A large white hat box holding what must be dozens of roses, a glass dish with a large arrangement of wildflowers, a bouquet of bright colors in an ornate vase, and a display of four white orchids in a rustic wooden box. The air did smell sweet. My brain had to be more befuddled than I’d realized not to have noticed them earlier.
“What’s all that?” I asked, nodding in their direction.
“They’re for you,” said Patrick. “Started arriving after you went to bed. They’re from my agent, the studio I did my last film with, and the photographer from today.”
“Wow.” My smile came easier this time. “And I’m keeping these flowers. You can work out what you’re going to tell Mei.”
“Your allergies mysteriously disappeared. No one can explain it. Probably some post-traumatic shock reaction.”
“I can’t even remember the last time I got flowers.”
“You really wanted them?” he asked, a little confused if anything.
“Of course she did, you dickhead,” mumbled Jack.
Patrick frowned. “The roses are from Cole. He wanted to stop by and check on you, but I said you were sleeping.”
“Don’t feel bad, buddy.” Jack smiled. “I’d be insecure too if Landry was after my girl.”
“I thought Patrick told you we were less than authentic,” I said.
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Jack raised a brow. “We males love our pissing competitions.”
“Great.”
“Once you’ve finished hauling his ass out of the mire you can come rescue me. I could use a reputation revival,” said Jack. “The last marriage did not go over so well. For some reason people expect you to stay together for more than two months.”
“Huh,” I said.
“Only took me that long to figure out she loved the money and fame a whole lot more than me.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah,” said Jack. “Thank fuck for pre-nups.”
Despite being wide awake a minute ago, I was starting to get drowsy again. However, returning to the bedroom at the other end of the house on my own did not appeal. I grabbed a cushion and lay down, letting their low voices soothe me. Not being alone was nice. For a long time at my apartment, it had mostly just been me. I had friends that I met up with from time to time, but I don’t know . . . life got busy and I was lazy and before I knew it, months and then years went by.
At some stage during the drowsing, I’d stretched out, and my feet now sat on Patrick’s thigh. The fingers of one hand rubbing and flexing my toes while his other thumb rubbed deep circles into the sole of my foot. Not one iota of tension remained. If being an actor didn’t work out, the man had serious foot masseur skills to fall back on.
“Are you acting right now?” asked Jack out of nowhere.
“Hmm?”
“Just that you and Norah sure look cozy.”
“She’s had a shit day,” said Patrick.
“Sure, sure,” agreed Jack. “Just remind me . . . when was the last time you actually lasted more than the prerequisite couple of dates with a woman you were into?”
“Never said I was into her.”
“Because you rub the feet of every woman that walks in the door?”
A dismissive grunt from Patrick.
“If you’re not into her, then why don’t you let Cole shoot his shot?” asked Jack.
“I love him like a brother,” said Patrick. “But Cole is a womanizing asshole.”
“And you’re not?”
Patrick’s hands stilled.
The guitar fell silent. “Time for me to be off to bed.”
“That’s a very fucking good idea,” groused Patrick.
Soon after, he set my feet aside and stood. Guess his groin was doing better. Because he oh so carefully lifted me into his arms and carried me off to bed. And I pretended I was fast asleep the entire time.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Bright sunlight shone around the edges of the bedroom curtains. Patrick’s side of the bed was vacant, the sheets cool to the touch. Which was sad. Guess I liked waking up with someone. Or, to be honest, him in particular. It was late, though. Later than I’d anticipated. Thanks to my alarm not waking me—because my cell no longer sat where I’d left it on the bedside table. What a fucking disaster, given our big interview today. I climbed out of bed and got moving. Never in the history of hygiene has someone showered and brushed their teeth as fast as I did. I still had on last night’s sweatpants and tank top, so I headed out. My upper arm still ached like a bitch and the bruising had turned the most colorful shades overnight. Without a doubt, the sleeveless dress the stylist had planned for today would be out.
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