Men Like This. Roxanne Smith
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visit Richard tomorrow, okay? If you’re right, maybe I’ll do something about it. My bigger dilemma is figuring out if I’m seriously attempting to go to London. I still say it’s madness.”
Douglas raised his white caterpillar eyebrows. “Oh? And premier horror novelist Clementine Hazel writing a romance isn’t?”
He had her there.
“You’ve got a fan base of blood-lusting, thrill-seeking readers. To satisfy them with a love story it’s gotta be nothing short of epic. I mean, a real sweeping masterpiece that can’t be denied no matter what section of the library they house it in.” He held his hands out wide as though cradling the earth itself. “Epic.”
Quinn shook her head in awe of herself. “You’re right. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you’re right. Oh, God.” Her hand flew to her chest. “I’m going to have a panic attack.”
Douglas signaled for the waiter without any show of concern. “Can it wait until after dessert? How does banana pudding sound? It’s both delicious and virtually impossible to choke on.”
Quinn threw her napkin down. “I’ll be in the car.”
Chapter Four
Jack’s final night in Hollywood looked and smelled about as sour as it felt.
Sabini’s wasn’t the sort of place he’d normally spend a great deal of time. Quite the opposite, in fact. Though the bar was rather nice, the crowd drawn by the dance club down the hall rubbed him the wrong way. The women dressed trashy, and the men dressed like women half the time, with their jeans wrapped tight around their skinny, and some not so skinny, legs like they’d been applied with glue and a roll-on brush.
Worse yet, Jack doubted Sabini’s was the sort of place Quinn hung out.
Quinn Buzzly.
Disappointment didn’t quite cover the circumstances. On the other side of the world, in some Hungarian forest, a director sat angrily punching words into his phone, which would then travel thousands upon thousands of miles to arrive in the text in-box of Jack’s mobile. He should’ve been on location by now. Two weeks had passed, and Jack had finally run out of excuses to remain in L.A.
He sighed and surveyed the bar before motioning for Busty the Barkeep. He’d formed a slight attachment to the young bartender. It had nothing to do with her bust, beauty, or remarkable bar-side manner. Rather, her presence behind the bar kept the memory of the night he’d met Quinn fresh in Jack’s mind.
Busty smiled in her friendly way. “Whiskey ginger ale, hold the whiskey?”
He knocked back the last sip of his previous drink. “Do you remember me?” The question sounded sudden and strange to his own ears. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I mean, not from the last two weeks I’ve been practically living on your barstools. But the night I was here with the blond. I guess what I’m really asking is if you recall her.”
The bartender relaxed and leaned onto the bar as if to in settle for a long conversation. The bar was slow enough, certainly, being a weeknight. “Trust me, dude. You do not forget a girl who comes in here dressed for the prom.”
Jack nodded. “Would you recognize her in jeans? Say, if she’d been here the week before, would you know it?”
He knew his cause was lost when Busty tilted her head to one side and gave him a pitying smile. “Sorry. There’s no lack of tall, pretty, blond women in Hollywood, but if you live here, I’m the damn mayor. Knowing faces is my livelihood. I’d never seen her before that night.”
Jack swallowed a sigh of despair. He ought to have figured by now. Or even asked sooner, but then he’d have lost out on two weeks of hoping Quinn might show up.
Disappointment didn’t own the stage, though, because dismay in Quinn’s harsh verdict warred for space, as well. She’d decided the sort of man Jack was without giving him so much as a chance to prove otherwise. That bothered him greatly, but he hardly held it against her. After what her ex-husband had put her through, what woman didn’t run for the hills after a hookup with a stranger?
“Hookup” didn’t do their encounter justice, but Quinn wasn’t here to argue the point. Jack had been dead set on seeing her again. Had she felt the same, she’d have come to Sabini’s.
Sure, he could go knock on her hotel-room door, but he had a notion he’d be an unwelcome sight. No, Quinn had to be the one to make the decision. She had to come to him. He’d done his part, putting off his director who, had he not been a good friend besides, likely would’ve fired him by now, and putting himself where he could be found were Quinn so inclined to find him.
Jack declined another drink from Busty. He stood and reached for his jacket hung on the back of the stool.
With the smoothness of a longtime habit, she swiped his crumpled paper-napkin coaster from the bar with one hand, and ran a wet cloth over it with the other all before he’d even got his arms inside the sleeves. She smiled up at him. “See you tomorrow, then.”
“No, unfortunately not.” Jack picked through his wallet for a bill large enough to properly demonstrate his appreciation for the kind company. “It’s back to work for me, I’m afraid. One less face for you to memorize, eh?”
“It’s a nice face. I’ll miss it.”
A lovely sentiment. Jack handed her the bill, then waved as he started for the exit. Unfortunately, it came from the wrong woman.
* * * *
The ball sat in Richard’s court. He let out a low whistle, sat back into his fat, cushy black chair and thoughtfully chewed his bottom lip. Doubt dripped from the words he finally spoke. “A divorcee to write a romance?”
“No one appreciates love like those who have lost it.”
Quinn’s poetic answer didn’t seem to have amused him. He smiled without humor. “Never argue with a writer. Your extensive arsenal of words can make even the worst idea sound brilliant. It’s a shame you dislike politics.”
It sounded like a compliment but felt like a barb.
His manner became increasingly condescending. It wasn’t a stretch for her to figure out he considered her plumb stupid. “You do realize what a bad idea this is? You, the mother of gore, are going to slap every single one of your fans in the face by putting out some lovey-dovey fairy tale? Oh, not to mention how not thrilled your publisher’s going to be about this. You’re a brand, dear, whether you like it or not. That’s not a box you step out of on a whim or because you’re having a midlife crisis. My professional opinion? Take a vacation. Go to London, scratch out a little love story if it’ll make you happy, then come home and do what Clementine Hazel does best—write stories that have adults checking under the bed for monsters right alongside their children.”
A more moving statement than she’d anticipated. “Maybe I’ll use another pen name. Clementine can stay true to her art.” She couldn’t make herself any clearer. She wasn’t JELL-O to be squished into a mold, but an artist. She’d decide her medium.
“That’s the smartest thing to come out of your mouth since you arrived.” Richard tugged at his tie again and opened the thin silver laptop on his desk. “I’ll print out a fresh copy of our contract, and we can go over the fine print.”
Thankfully, she hadn’t taken her dad’s bet. She’d need the money if no one wanted to publish her novel. The sheer possibility made her queasy.
It was easy to understand Richard’s reticence, but it galled her how quickly he let her go without a fight. “Getting to the meat of the matter, huh? I can’t believe you’re so certain I’ll fail.”
“Hey, you’re the one letting me go, remember? That said, you’re absolutely right about me.” He glanced up from the computer monitor. “You’re committing career suicide. I’m jumping ship while the jumping is good.”