Hollywood Prince Page 5
“It’s not in English,” she says in frustration.
My snicker is hard to contain. Still, I somehow manage. I think she’d be pissed if I laughed right now. Closer and closer I move and flip it around—she had it upside down. Then I place my hands over hers to find Cam’s contact and tap it.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
Then an answer. “You’ve reached Cam. Leave a message.”
Beep.
She stares at it as if in shock and disconnects the call. “He’s not answering. He always answers when I call.”
Tucking my phone in my pocket before she drops it, I feel kind of bad for her. “He’s in some remote location in Mexico with really shitty cell service and I’m sure the weather isn’t helping. I have the phone number of the resort over at my place. You can call and leave a message for him at the desk.”
Before I can catch her, she’s sliding down the side of the house in utter defeat. I wish I had paid attention now when Cam tried to tell me where he hid the spare key after he had the security system upgraded, and what the new pass code to it is.
Next thing I know she’s crying. Crying. Like waterfalls-of-tears crying. “Now, I’m homeless.”
I bend and tip her chin toward me. “Hey, it’s fine. You can stay with me.”
She looks up and smiles. “You sure?”
“Yeah, of course.”
All the color is now gone from her face. “See, you really are a prince.”
Hardly.
If only she knew the thoughts running through my mind right now, none of them princely like at all.
“Vlka,” she mutters.
“What?”
“Vokla,” she says, this time licking those full lips again.
Shaking my head, I say, “Come on,” and offer my hand. The last thing she needs is another drink. “I’ll get your things after I get you over to my place.”
“You’re so nice,” she slurs as she grasps onto my fingers and squeezes really tight.
She’s light and I easily bring her to her feet, even with the Chinese finger torture she’s giving me.
Before I know it, she’s leaning against me again. I know that I shouldn’t get aroused by this; trust me, I do. My cock, on the other hand—he has lessons to learn about friends’ sisters because he’s standing up for attention.
Sniff.
Sniff.
Sniff.
What in the hell?
Amelia is drawing air in through her nose while her head is buried in my neck.
“Are you sniffing me?” I ask her.
Not in the least bit fazed, she answers, “Yes, and you smell so good.”
Yeah, my cock does a leap with the prospect of what that means.
Down, boy.
Not happening.
“Nothing like my father,” she adds.
Okay, I’m so ignoring that comment.
Even though it kills me to untangle myself from her, I do. “Let’s get you in bed,” I tell her.
She purrs.
Actually purrs. Like she’s excited about the idea. Does she think I’m joining her? I think she does.
Okay, maybe I will.
Twist my arm.
No! I have to squash that thought right now and it’s so goddamn hard, but she’s my best friend’s little sister, and let’s face it—Cam would fucking kill me if I touched her.
With my head on straight, I’m determined to get her in bed. I mean to bed. And not my bed.
I take a step.
Then another.
Things are going so well . . . until we get to the stairs and she looks at me like she’s seeing stars, and passes out. Cold.
Great.
Just great.
Catching her, I toss her over my shoulder and try not to think about how soft the skin is on her back where her shirt has lifted. Or how shapely her legs are dangling in front of my chest. Or about the fact that judging from the low rise of her yoga pants, I don’t think she’s wearing any panties.
No panties.
Just kill me now.
THE HANGOVER
Amelia
Of all the miseries inflicted on humankind, some are so minor and yet, while they last, so very painful.
My head is pounding.
My stomach is rolling.
My eyelids can barely stay open.
How is it that after all these centuries a true remedy for a hangover has yet to be discovered?
Glancing around, I take in my surroundings. Bright, colorful tapestries and bold prints are everywhere. Different-sized paper lanterns hang from the ceiling above the bed. A crib is in one corner and a baby swing in the other. Piles of blankets and baby clothes are stacked on one of the chairs. And photos of a happy couple and their little baby cover the dresser. This room is filled with love from top to bottom.
I’m in my brother’s girlfriend’s best friend’s room. Maggie May Masters used to live here, and by the looks if it, she comes back often. I’ve been here, but not since Maggie married and had a child. She was wild and single the last time I visited, which makes me realize just how long it has been.
Still, I’m thankful for where I am. At least this house is next door to he who shall not be named right now’s house.
I cover my eyes. Oh God, I can’t believe my brother is MIA.
Good thing I met Maggie two Thanksgivings ago when I came to visit the keeper of secrets himself. So I’m not sleeping in a total stranger’s bed.
Makayla, his girlfriend, had just moved in with him at the time—my secret-keeping brother, that is—and Brooklyn had just moved out. Brooklyn wasn’t around, but Maggie, who is Makayla’s best friend, and I had hit it off wonderfully. She is a lot of fun. And of course I fell in love with Makayla immediately. How could I not—I could see how much my brother loved her. Honestly, she couldn’t be more perfect for the evil one. Even if I am mad at my brother right now, I am really happy for him. He deserves happiness.
A beeping noise has me trying to lift my head. My phone is on the night table and after two tries, I’m finally able to grab it. My father has called five times. Wonder if the bitchy witch Vanessa told him about seeing me? I can’t imagine she did. I know I have to deal with my father, but I can’t right now. Thumbing down, I read Carter’s five text messages.
Carter: Are you there yet? Call me.
Carter: Mia Girl, I’m waiting for your call.
Carter: That’s it. You are officially no longer my best friend.
Carter: Okay, so I was hasty. Your status remains intact. Now call me.
Carter: Amelia, I’m worried. Call me.
Feeling bad I didn’t call him last night, I shoot him a quick text.
Me: I’m here. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be in touch soon.
And then I send a text to my mother, who I know I have a lot of making up to do with, but the way I’m feeling right now, that, too, will need to be postponed.
Me: Hey Mom, I want you to know I decided to take a last-minute trip to see Cam. I’ll call soon. And Mom, I love you.
I love you—three words I haven’t spoken to her in a very long time. Like I said, if what Vanessa told me is true, and I think it is, I have a lot of making up to do.
One more text to Cam telling him to call me, and after I set my phone down, I decide it’s time to get up.
Stumbling out of bed, I feel a slight draft. Looking down at myself, the first thing I notice is that I’m wearing a man’s T-shirt—no, not just any man’s T-shirt; it’s the same black T-shirt Brooklyn was wearing last night under that fine leather jacket of his. I know this because it reads Voodoo. Last night I kept thinking it read Vodka, and all I wanted to do was lick him, and his brooding stare.
The second thing I notice is that I have no pants on, which means I’m bare down there. Having stripped my panties off midair yesterday because they were uncomfortable, I now can’t believe I ever did such a thing.
Inside the bathroom, I use my finger to bru
sh my teeth, search for some aspirin, find it, take it, and then look at myself.
That’s one hot mess looking back at me.
Unable to stand this feeling, I decide I should resort to drastic measures to cure this hangover.
Let’s see.
There’s burned toast. Hate that.
Greasy food. Don’t think I can stomach that.
A Bloody Mary. No way. No more vodka.
Carter swears by the harrowing concoction called “The Bull’s-Eye.” Which is raw egg mixed into a glass of OJ. I can’t even. Just the thought gets to me. In fact, I think I just threw up a little in my mouth.
There has to be a better way to silence the house DJ playing in my skull.
I got it.
Extreme temperature change.
Opening the bathroom door, I’m back in Maggie’s room. Somehow I manage to still the room long enough to make it over to the French doors that lead outside. I fling them open and stand there in the cool temperature, waiting to feel better.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Nothing.
No change.
Okay, I really need to amp up this cure.
Glancing around, I catch sight of my camera. That makes me smile. I brought my old one because Carter took my newer one on New Year’s Eve. It’s my most favorite one anyway. Maybe because of the happy memories it evokes, maybe because I want a piece of my past that makes sense—who knows.
Continuing to look around the room, I locate my suitcase lying on the floor. It takes more than five minutes to ward off the nausea while trying to find what I’m looking for, if I even brought it. I packed in a rush and just threw things in.
Ah-ha! Found it.
No, never mind. That is a bra.
Tossing it aside, I continue looking.
Hair tie. That is helpful.
Rifling through some more things, I find nothing.
Okay, so I have no bikini top or bottoms. And no underwear, either. Great. Doesn’t matter. I find the panties I stashed away in my purse on the plane and slide them up my thighs.
Don’t judge.
They are practically clean. I mean, I wore them for like a whole two hours.
Yes, I’m so convincing myself of this.
Whatever.
Here goes nothing.
SPLENDOR IN THE GRASS
Brooklyn
Holiday weekends suck.
When you have to work, that is.
Even in the winter months, if I’m not painting or doing paperwork, I’m patrolling, which is my job today.
Shit, I think it is time for me to quit and start writing full-time because I really don’t want to be out here.
The back-to-back storms blamed on El Niño are nothing to be happy about, although I can’t say right now I’m that upset about them. With over two inches of rain yesterday and another three expected today, the National Weather Service is working on issuing a flash-flood warning for Southern California. And the only light at the end of the tunnel of this crazy weather is that it has warranted closing the beach.
Thank fuck.
It means I get to go home.
Although I’m certain Amelia will be passed out for many more hours, I’d still like to be around in case she wakes up. And not because I want to see that hot little body of hers or watch the way she puckers those sexy lips. No, that’s not why. In fact, I don’t know why. It’s just that I feel like she needs someone to fuck—I mean someone to talk to her.
Yeah, talk to her, not fuck her.
Typical of storms like the ones we’ve been battered with the past couple of days, the clouds are darkening quickly and the wind is picking up speed. The waves are calmer than usual, but out in the distance I can see the whitecaps. A sign of what’s to come. The rough waters are headed this way, and fast.
Chasing the last of the beachcombers away, I stick the “Public Beach Closed” sign in the sand and give one last look around. A couple of kids are being ushered up the pathway to the public parking lot by their parents and an old man is searching for loose change with his metal detector; otherwise, the beach is clear.
With a twist of the lock to the tower, I consider the run-swim-run workout I had planned to get myself home, but figure I should skip the swim part since I’d be breaking the beach rules I just posted.
Having jogged here, though, I have no choice but to huff it the two miles home. Staying as far from the shoreline as possible, I lunge forward, but don’t rush. When the white clouds disappear, I decide to pick up my pace.
Light drops of rain slide down my face just as I hit the one-mile mark. That’s when I start to run hard and fast. It’s cool, though. Sprinting barefoot in the wet sand has to be one of the best workouts. Second mile goes fast and soon I’m approaching my place. Just in time, too, because the rain is starting to pick up.
I shoot a wave to Ryan Gerhardt. He’s the famous mystery novelist who lives in the large, ultramodern beach house next door to me with his wife, Pam. Standing on his deck with his Yorkies, Romeo and Juliet, he’s staring out into the water with such a concerned look on his face that he doesn’t even notice me.
My head quickly does a 180 so I can see exactly what, or rather who, has his rapt attention.
It’s Amelia—in my black T-shirt, thigh-deep in the surf, standing unmoving. Her long hair is knotted up in a twist on top of her head and her hands are skimming along the surface of the water as if it is the most natural thing in the world to take a dip in the middle of a fucking storm.
There is something sad about her, though, which makes my heart twist. She’s staring vacantly out at the horizon. I watch for a beat, and then two, as she stands immobile.
What the hell is she doing?
She raises her hand to shade her eyes, and looks out into the Pacific Ocean as if the increasing wave heights and the rain are of absolutely no concern whatsoever.
They should be.
When she takes another step, farther out, I snap into lifeguard mode.
She shouldn’t be out there. The current is crazy strong and in an instant could ripple and carry her away with it.
“Amelia!” I yell with a frantic tone in my voice.
The waves are crashing, the seagulls above are squawking, and the dogs are barking, and I’m not sure if she can’t hear me or is simply in her own zone.
Dropping my phone in the sand, I take off toward the water at a dead run.
Just before I hit the shoreline, she squeezes her nose with her fingers and plummets below the surface.
Is she out of her mind?
Like a bat out of hell, I dive into the fucking 50-degree water and swim as fast as I can the fifteen feet or so to where she disappeared.
The water is murky, but I catch sight of her and take hold of her around her chest, immediately jetting us both up to the surface.
True to California weather, the storm is starting to rampage. Lightning illuminates the sky in the distance. Thunder, far away but coming closer, rumbles and roars loud and fierce. The ocean is getting rougher, choppier. The sky is suddenly grayer. Soon it will turn black.
Amelia is shouting, but I don’t stop to figure out what. I’m determined to get us safely on the shore.
Soon we’re knee deep in the surf and she stands on her own and shouts, “Are you crazy?”
Me?
Am I crazy?
Is she for real?
The storm has now reared up in full force, and again I have no time to answer her absurd question. The rain is coming down in fat, stinging splatters. Sand is flying all around the shore. We need to get inside. I grab her hand and yank her along with me. Luckily for her, she follows, or else it would be over-the-shoulder time—again.
“Do you need help?” Ryan yells from afar.
I look up and he is now below his deck and standing beyond the gate to his pool, raindrops striking the top of his head, his arms, and his silk shirt.
I wave over to him. “We’re fine, but thanks.”
Taking the last step out of the ocean, I look at Amelia, who has stopped to search the beach for something. “Let’s get inside!” I yell over the wind, pointing to the house.
“I left my camera and my phone wrapped in my towel on the sand!” she shouts.
I look away for one minute to where I dropped my phone. Fuck, that area is now covered with both water and sand. Looks like I lost another phone. That’s three in the past six months. Turning, I see Amelia is beginning to drift out into the ocean because of the strong current. “Forget it. It’s long gone!” I shout.
Squinting her eyes, she continues to search the beach for it. “No, I can find them. I have to find them. They’re somewhere on the beach,” she says and starts walking, in the opposite direction of the house, and she’s still in the water, too.
Lightning strikes overhead and the thunder roars. “Amelia! They’re gone!” I shout. “Get out of the water, now.”
Adhering to my command, she hurries out of the surf, but wanders toward Ryan’s house instead of toward me.
“Amelia!” I shout again over the rain and thunder.
Finally, she stops, and for a moment I think she is going to follow me, but instead of heading home, she looks out at the ocean.
Catching up to her, I take hold of her arm and look out as well, only to see a piece of yellow terry cloth flying away, almost like a flag. It’s one of Maggie’s towels. Amelia stands there watching it, unmoving, as the storm batters fiercely against us. Looks like it’s shoulder time after all. Jetting in front of her, I bend and grab her legs and toss her sexy little body over my shoulder.
Unlike last night, this time she’s not very pliable and stiffening her body, she tries to kick and punch her way free. I can’t hear her ranting over the sound of the wind, which might be a good thing.
Tiny fists pummel my back. It doesn’t really hurt.
Ouch, fuck. That one hurt. A kick right in the balls.
Ignoring the bodily harm she’s causing me, I run to Maggie’s door and thank you very much, it’s unlocked. As soon as I’m inside, I toss Amelia on the bed and turn to close the door.