The Things She Says. Kat Cantrell
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against the hard booth and watched his desert mirage do a dozen mundane things. Punching her time card in the antiquated machine mounted to the wall of the open kitchen. Making a phone call at the honest-to-God pay phone nestled between the upright video game and the bathrooms.
She moved with vibrancy, like the progression of a blooming flower caught in time-release photographs. Suddenly bursting with color and life. Magnificence where a moment before had been nothing special. Where was his camera when he really needed it? Anything that visceral should be captured through the lens for all posterity.
No. Not for anyone else. Only for his private-viewing pleasure. A selfish secret celebrating artistry instead of capitalism. Maybe that was the key to unlocking the yet-to-be-conceptualized theme for Visions of Black, a frustration he’d carried for weeks.
The light in this dive was sallow and dim. All wrong. He’d position her outside, with the late-afternoon sun in her face and mountains rising behind in an uncultivated backdrop. Maybe an interview, so he could capture that mellifluous drawl and the unapologetic raw honesty. With VJ, everything was on the surface, in her eyes and on her tongue, and he was greedy for transparency after drowning in Hollywood games.
He’d left his condo in L.A. before dawn this morning, intending to drive straight through to Dallas, where he’d meet up with Kyla to start the engagement publicity and get rolling on preproduction work for Visions.
But one more Kyla-free night now felt less like a reprieve and more like a requirement.
He just wanted to make films, not deal with financing and publicity and endless Hollywood bureaucracy. Visions of Black was the right vehicle to propel his career to the next level, with the perfect blend of accessible characters, high-stakes drama and a tension-filled plot. Audiences would love Kyla in the starring role, and her charisma on the screen was unparalleled. She was a necessary part of the package, first and foremost because executive producer Jack Abrams insisted, but Kris couldn’t disagree with the dual benefit of box-office draw and high-profile PR.
The need to commit this story to film flared strongly enough that he was willing to deal with his ex and any other obstacles thrown in his path.
Tomorrow.
VJ skirted the tables and rejoined him, smiling expectantly. “Fried chicken?”
“Absolutely.” Nobody in L.A. ate fried chicken and the hearty smell of it had been teasing him since he walked through the door. “And a beer.”
“Excellent choice. Except you’re in the middle of the Bible Belt. Coke instead?” she offered.
“You don’t serve alcohol?” A glance around the diner answered that question. Every glass was filled with deep brown liquid. Five bucks said it was outrageously sweet tea.
“Sorry. I’m afraid it’s dry as a bone here.” She leaned in close and waggled her eyebrows. “We’re all good Baptists. Except behind closed doors, you know.”
He knew. Where he came from, everyone was Greek Orthodox except behind closed doors. Different label, same hypocrisy. “Coke is fine.”
“I’ll have it right out for you, sir.”
He almost groaned. “You can stop with the sir nonsense. Come right back. Keep me company,” he said.
Keep the locals at bay. A convenient excuse, but a poor one. He liked VJ, and he’d have to leave soon enough. Was it terrible to record as much of her as possible through the camera in his head until then?
“I can’t. I’m working.”
“Doing what?” He waved at the dining room. “This place is practically empty.”
Her probing gaze roamed over his face, as if searching for something, and the pursuit was so affecting, he felt oddly compelled to give it to her, no matter what it was.
“Okay,” she said. “But only for a few minutes.”
She glided through the haphazard maze of tables and bent over her order pad, then handed it to the middle-aged woman in the kitchen. Pearl, if he had to guess.
The brutish brothers, clearly adopted, continued to shoot malevolent grimaces over their shoulders, but hadn’t left their stools again.
Only a couple of things were guaranteed to rile Kris’s temper—challenging his artistic vision and picking on someone weaker. Otherwise, he stayed out of it. Drama belonged on the screen, not in real life.
A slender young woman with a wholesome face whirled into the diner and flew to VJ’s side. Amused, he crossed his arms as they whispered furiously to each other while shooting him fascinated glances under their lashes. Benign gawking, especially by someone who intrigued him as much as VJ did, was sort of flattering. After a couple of minutes, the other woman flounced to the bar, her sidelong gaping at him so exaggerated she almost tripped over her sandals.
“Friend of yours?” he asked as VJ approached his table.
VJ was giving him a wide berth, something he normally appreciated, but not today and not with her. There’d been an easiness between them earlier, as if they’d been friends for a long time, before she got uptight about his connection to Kyla. Friends were hard to come by in Hollywood, especially for someone who cultivated a reputation for being driven and moody. He lost little sleep over it. Different story with VJ, who made the idea of being so disconnected unappealing.
“Yeah, practically since birth. That’s Pamela Sue. She’s only here to ogle you.”
He laughed. “I’m not used to such honesty. I like it. What does VJ stand for?” he asked and propped his chin on a palm, letting his gaze roam over her expressive face. Women were manipulative and scheming where he came from. This one was different.
“Victoria Jane. It’s too fancy for these parts, so folks mostly call me VJ.”
VJ fit her—it was short, sassy and unusual. “Most? But not all?”
“Perceptive, aren’t you? My mom didn’t. But she’s been gone now almost a year.”
Ouch. The pain flickering through her eyes drilled right through him, leaving a gaping hole. Before thinking it through, he reached out and gently enfolded her hand in his.
“I’m sorry,” he said. After the ill-fated exchange of harsh words with his father sixteen years ago, Kris had walked away from a guaranteed position at Demetrious Shipping, the Demetrious fortune and Greece entirely. His relationship with his mom had been one of the casualties, and phone calls weren’t the same. But he couldn’t imagine a world where even a call wasn’t possible. “That must’ve been tough. Must still be.”
“Are you trying to make me cry?” She swallowed hard.
Dishes clinked and clacked from the kitchen and the noise split the air.
“Pearl’s subtle way of telling me to get my butt to work.” VJ rolled wet, shiny eyes. “Honestly, she should pick up your check. This place hasn’t seen such a big crowd since Old Man Smith’s funeral.”
While he’d been distracted, locals had packed the place. Most of the tables were now full of nuclear families, worn-out men in crusty boots or acne-faced teenagers.
“So you’re saying I’m at least as popular as a dead man?” It shouldn’t have been funny, but the corners of his mouth twitched none the less.
Soberly, she pulled her hand from his and stood. Her natural friendliness had returned and then vanished. He missed it.
“Well, I have to work.” She eased away, her expression blank. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Demetrious. I wish you and Ms. Monroe all the happiness in the world with your upcoming marriage.”
He scowled. “Kyla and I aren’t engaged.”
Yet. It didn’t improve his mood to hear rumors of the impending engagement had already surfaced, courtesy of Kyla, no doubt.
Why was