Blow My Fuse - Kickstart Trilogy
Still, sometimes I’d like to have bad news broken to me gently. I don’t have to ask which part. It’s the one I’ve been calling and pestering her about every day since the audition.
“They went with Pamela Scott. But from what I heard, it was a close call.”
Pamela Scott. Why couldn’t it have been anyone else in the world?
“Close. Great.” I hang my head, wishing I’d stayed in bed this morning.
“Hey,” Marilyn snaps. “Out of four hundred girls, they narrowed it down to you and Pamela Scott. I’d stay that’s fucking amazing, kid.”
Well, when she puts it that way. “I guess so.”
“It’s close to pilot season, you’ll be running yourself ragged all over Hollywood soon enough.”
“What else?”
She flicks a piece of paper at me. “Commercials. Coffee. Pancake syrup. You’re perfect for both.”
“Thanks.”
It wasn’t meant to be. It’s okay. I try to reassure myself on the way out of Marilyn’s office. Outside, I stare at the street for a few seconds. My gaze finally lands on my bank branch, and suddenly, I know exactly how to cheer myself up.
Unfortunately, guilt takes a stroll to the bank with me.
At the time we had to send the money back to my father’s associates, Chaser never asked questions, and I never volunteered that I’d hung onto quite a few extra thousand dollars.
In my mind, it’s our emergency fund. I haven’t touched a penny.
Until today.
When the bank attendant walks away, leaving me to view my safety deposit box in privacy, I pull out a stack of bills and swiftly count out enough for what I want.
Outside there’s a pay phone and I dial Audrey’s number from memory. It never occurred to me how I was going to get where I want and lug the items home. “Are you busy today?”
“Not until later. What’s up?”
“Would you mind giving me a ride?”
She’s there in half an hour. “Nice car. When did this happen?” I slide into the shiny red Corvette and snap my seatbelt into place.
“It was a present.”
“From Paris guy?”
She flips the blinker on and pulls into traffic. “Yes. He’s seriously wearing me down.”
I glance around at the buttery-smooth tan interior. “I don’t blame you. But I’m going to be sad if you run away to Paris.”
“We might stick around.”
“We, huh?”
“God, I can’t believe I said that.” She blows out a frustrated breath. “Where are am I taking you?”
I recite the directions, and she chuckles.
“Do you want me to wait in the car?” she asks when we pull up in front of the shop.
“You don’t have to.”
Her pager beeps, and she twists around, searching the street. “You see a pay phone?”
I point one out up ahead, and she shoos me out of the car. “Go on. This is Douglas, I don’t want him to worry.”
“Oooo…Paris guy has a name?”
“Yes, he has a name.” She’s smiling too hard to be as exasperated as she wants me to believe.
The little bells over the door jingle as I enter the store. Julius is behind the counter and lights up when he sees me. “Chaser’s girl! What can I help you with? I don’t suppose you’re here to take lessons?”
“Nope.” I point to the Gibson Cherry Sunburst guitar Chaser had been so in love with on our last visit. “I’m here for her.”
He flashes an indulgent smile. “Sweetheart, maybe you didn’t look at the price tag last time.” Even though he’s clearly humoring me, he takes the guitar down and sets it on the counter between us.
“You take cash, right?”
A little more interest enters his expression. He flips over the price tag, and I nod at him. “Can you sell me a case for it too?” I glance around the store. “What else does Chaser need to go with it?”
“Wait here.” He pushes a set of black curtains aside, behind the counter I’d never noticed, and disappears. A few minutes later, he returns with a black case and sets it on the counter. Shiny red velvet lines the inside, and Julius carefully places the guitar inside. “Chaser’s a picky one. Better off letting him come in and choose his own accoutrements. He should have enough to get started.”
“Thank you.”
He rings up the guitar and watches me with an amused expression, probably figuring I’m going to be shocked at the total and back out of the deal. Amusement turns to delight when I calmly count out several neat stacks of hundred-dollar bills.
“You a drug dealer?” he asks.
“No. I’m an actress.” And a thief.
“Damn, girlie. Beauty and generosity, Chaser’s a lucky man.”
“He’s been very good to me, he works hard, and I want him to have it.”
“He better appreciate you. If not, you come see me and I’ll kick his behind.”
I chuckle as I lift the heavy case. No wonder Chaser has such sculpted arms. Lugging his equipment around all the time is an effective workout.