“What do you need an assistant for, anyway?”
Turner shook his head at me like I was missing something important. “You get to pull the reclusive author bit, doing a few interviews, what, like, once, twice a year? No Facebook presence. No Twitter account. Hell, you probably don’t even know what Instagram is.”
I did, but only because I’d heard him and Candy talking about it several times, and as far as I knew, it was just a place where women went to post cle**age shots (and men went to look at said shots).
He rolled his eyes at my look. “What I’m saying is, in the writing world, there are only a few that get to do it like Alasdair Fucking Masters.”
I just continued to stare at him.
He shook his head at me again, as though I was a lost cause. “It works for you, but some of us have to promote. That means on top of writing books, there’s a few extra full-time jobs that may or may not get done, and this may or may not tank a new release if we don’t have some help.”
Finally, it made some sense, though he still didn’t. “So there’s actually work to be done, and you still keep hiring people that aren’t doing any of it?”
“Not anymore. I swear it. Candy was the last one. But enough about me. What’s the word on Lourdes? You going out with her again?”
I flushed. I didn’t like his wording. “We went out for coffee. As friends. We did not go out.”
He shrugged. “Well, she’s smokin’. A dime for sure. I think she could be a body double for Nicole Scherzinger. And maybe you should ask her out. Why the f**k not? One big selling point: I can guarantee she won’t rag tap you post coital.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t asked her out,” I mused, thinking about it. I knew she’d photographed headshots for him at least once, so they knew each other, and a girl like Lourdes was straight playboy catnip to a guy like Turner.
He flushed, shifting. It took me a moment to place the look on his face, because I’d never actually seen it before.
He was uncomfortable.
“You did ask her out,” I guessed.
He winced comically. “Yeah, I did. I’m not her type. I think I came on a little too strong for her, right after her divorce. After that, she’s refused to take my calls, even professionally.”
“What on earth did you do?”
“Nothing terrible. I was just a bit crude, and she’s a lady. Put in a good word for me with her, will you? At least professionally, if nothing else. I could use some new headshots.”
“I’ll see what I can do, but I probably won’t see her any time soon.”
“Sure you won’t, stud.”
As though f**king Turner had willed it, I ran into Lourdes at the market three days later.
We hugged, she kissed me on both cheeks, European style, and we proceeded to go for coffee and chat for over an hour.
I really did enjoy her company.
Something seemed different about her, some new flush to her cheeks that hadn’t been there before. A new light in her eyes that made me wonder what she’d been up to.
“You look great,” I told her, for maybe the third time.
I was an idiot. She always looked great.
She flushed in pleasure and thanked me.
But there was just something about her, some subtle shift that had her going from being naturally sultry to nearly oozing sex appeal.
I knew she hadn’t been dating much, if at all, since her divorce, but I wondered suddenly if she was getting laid.
That’s what it was, I thought, the look of a beautiful woman well f**ked.
Probably my overactive imagination going wild, but she did look good. Not the usual wearing just the right color good, but getting your world rocked on a regular basis good.
I wondered about it, but we didn’t have the type of friendship where I could just come out and ask a thing like that.
We went for a walk after coffee; in fact I walked her nearly to her house, which was close by.
I avoided taking her all the way home, getting cold feet and telling her I was running behind for a meeting, which was a lie.
I just couldn’t tell how interested she was in me, and I didn’t want to get into an awkward situation with her, if I could avoid it.
I was still holding a torch for an ether-tapping eighteen-year-old that was being held prisoner God only knew where, and for reasons I couldn’t fathom.
Life went on without a word from Iris, and I felt like a fool.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ONE MONTH LATER
I couldn’t even recall what all was said in the short phone call that had me driving across the city in the middle of the night on a Tuesday.
I did remember the sound of her voice and the tone of it.
Calm and sure.
Even a touch casual, as though I hadn’t been waiting, anxious and desperate for any word of her since the last time we were together.
I couldn’t remember throwing on clothes, but my mind was clear by the time I made it to my garage.
I took my black Q7, because it had a bit more room, and I wasn’t sure what to expect.
I also recalled where she’d told me to meet her and why it was such a strange request.
It was that damned neon rave warehouse club where I’d had to pick her up from all those months ago, that same place where someone had slipped something into her drink.
What in all hell was she thinking to end up there again?
And when had she gotten back to town?
I would have to wait to find out, as she’d hung up before I could ask a single question.
I got some strange looks as I parked my Audi on the curb beside some kids painted neon and tripping out on God only knew what.
“It’s a cop, man!” one of them yelled, and I paused for a moment, looking down at myself.
I’d thrown on dark gray UA track pants and a matching tee, my unruly brown hair was messy as usual, and that looked like a cop to them? Or were they just that high?
It didn’t matter; I ignored them, walking past. Only one person in this mess of neon concerned me.
It only took a few minutes for me to scan through all of the partygoers lined up near the street. Iris was always easy to spot, so I didn’t have to look hard to know she wasn’t outside.
With a long-suffering sigh, I headed inside.
The doorman didn’t want to let me in, but I’d brought cash for just this reason.