“No shit. Adding to my sexual bucket list.” Banner puts me on speaker, and I hear shuffling before the sound of scribbles.
“You have a sexual bucket list? And you keep it updated?” I’m not sure which surprises me more.
“Damn right I do. Goals only become real possibilities once you write them down. I use the SMART goal method. Specific, measurable, achievable, results-driven, and time-bound.” Banner rattles it off so easily.
It’s times like this when I remember my nut job of a best friend has crazy-smart scientists for parents who had her admitted to Mensa after her first qualifying IQ test. I think we were in elementary school. Crazy-smart runs in the family.
And this is just one more example of good intelligence being used for all the wrong reasons. Or maybe she’s smarter than all of us.
“Have I told you lately that I love you?”
“No, but if you sing that song to me, I’m going to reach through this phone and bitch slap you.”
I hum a few bars, and she interrupts.
“Has he fucked you on the Hollywood sign yet? Is he going to?”
“Oh my God, don’t tell me that’s on your list.”
I press my ear closer to the phone to hear what sounds like the tapping of a pen on paper. “No, but I’ll consider it. I think there’s a trespassing issue.”
I snort. “Says the girl who broke into the school to have pool sex during spring break when we were seventeen.”
“Unfair! There was tequila involved. I can’t be held responsible for my actions.”
I recall the night I placed the ad. Tequila is a sneaky devil. “Fair enough. So tell me, what did Logan say when you texted him back? He’s a super-cool guy.”
Silence hangs on the line for several beats. “Super-cool as in he needs a good personality to redeem him from being an overall-wearing country hick with a beer belly, or super-cool like he’s a backwoods Ken doll?”
I’m used to Banner’s random questions, so this one doesn’t throw me much. “Definitely not a Ken doll. But not a GI Joe either. He’d be an action figure all his own. You can tell he hasn’t been out of the military long. The buzz cut is grown out to shaggy, but he’s got that posture you can’t miss. Probably because he’s like six three and his shoulders are as wide as Cav’s.”
“Sounds like he’s a brick shithouse. What about his eyes? Is he stubbly? Does he wear all camo?”
Whoa. These aren’t the kind of questions Banner would normally ask. “What exactly happened when you texted him back? Are you intrigued?”
“No, of course not. I just . . . Never mind.”
Did her voice get a little breathy? “Banner? Is there something you need to tell me?”
“Oh shit, I just realized I have a project due by end of business today. I better get back to it. ’Bye, babe. Make sure to use lots of lube!”
Something isn’t adding up here, but before I can question her further, the call has ended.
I’ve never understood what it takes to make a movie, and now I’m in a recording studio listening to Cav and other actors recite their lines so the voices can be layered over part of the film where the mic went out.
Casablanca.
How did I not have any clue they were remaking the movie? A classic, obviously, and not something I would have ever expected to see Cav in. But then again, he makes a perfect Rick. Windsor is gorgeous as Ilsa, and then there’s Peyton DeLong, who I hate on sight, even though I thought he was cute in his last romcom. If Cav determined his face needed smashing because he was talking shit about me, I don’t ever need to meet him.
But Peyton’s done with Victor Laszlo’s lines first and comes out of the booth where they’re recording.
I divert my attention to my nails, which suddenly become the most fascinating things on the planet. I’m staring down at them when feet enter my field of vision. Loafers, actually. The kind you see in Dolce & Gabbana ads but can’t picture any red-blooded man actually wearing. Apparently Peyton DeLong isn’t worried about being mistaken for a red-blooded man.
“You sick of your ride on his dick yet? Because I’ve got six inches waiting for you.”
I choke on the words six inches and lift my head enough to stare directly at his belt buckle. Then I raise my eyes the rest of the way up to meet his.
“I’m sorry, I must have misheard you.”
Does he really think it’s acceptable to come over here and speak to me like that? I know I opened myself up to all sorts of nasty comments when I posted my ad, but you’d think a guy who’s won so many Teen Choice Awards and statuettes for being a great role model for kids would have some class.
And you’d be wrong.
“That’s all you care about, isn’t it? Why is it you little rich girls always go for the trash before finding someone who’s your social equal. We get sick of sloppy seconds, you know.”
Oh. My. God. Is this guy for real? Cav is going to do more than just break his face.
“I would suggest you move along, Mr. DeLong. I think it’s safe to say you never have to worry about my being sloppy seconds for you.”
Even saying the words gives me the creeps. Gross. I wouldn’t go near this guy’s dick for all the money in the world.
And then he touches me. Uninvited. Hand on my chin, tilting my face upward.
I slap it away, but it’s too late. The soundstage door slams open.
“I told you to fucking stay away from her. You just couldn’t do it, could you?”
Cav yanks Peyton’s arm away from me and shoves his chest. The other man stumbles back across the room, falling into a chair.