No Need to Ask

by

Margo Candela

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locals or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover Design: LittleMagenta

Published by SugarMissile, llc

Copyright © Margo Candela 2012 All Rights Reserved

One

Jillian squinted her already closed eyes. As much as she wanted to go back to sleep, the scratchy texture of the sheets against her bare skin wouldn’t let her relax. She shifted to her side, hoping that less surface contact would let her doze back off. Nope. She turned to her other side, but it was just as bad.

“Go back to sleep,” grumbled Owen. He was just as naked as Jillian, but apparently oblivious to the dismally low thread count of the hotel sheets that were rubbing her naked body in all the wrong ways and places. “I can’t!” Jillian threw off the offending linens and jumped out of bed, leaving her ex-husband to yank the tangle of over-laundered sandpaper back over himself. “Look! I have a rash… and it better be from the sheets.”

“Funny, Jillian.” Owen grunted and buried his head under a pillow as Jillian opened the curtains, revealing the Los Angeles airport in the near distance. “My flight call time isn’t till noon. Come back to bed.”

“I’ve had more than enough of that, but thanks.” Jillian picked up his discarded button-down shirt and put it on.

“That’s not what you said last night,” Owen said, coming up from underneath the pillow. He crossed his arms behind his head so she could better see the smug look on his handsome face. “Or last week, or the week before that…”

“Don’t flatter yourself. If there had been something to watch on TV, I would have let your call go straight to voicemail.” Jillian kicked aside her sneakers so they were closer to her pile of clothes by the bathroom door.

“It was a text.” Owen gave her a raffish grin, his even white teeth gleaming against his dark stubble. “And we both know you’d never deny yourself a first class trip on the Owen Express.”

“Who would have thought getting a divorce was the best thing we could have done for our relationship?” Jillian focused on rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, letting her dark hair fall in front of her face. “Scratch that. Divorce has worked wonders for our sex life.”

Within a year of signing the papers, they’d fallen into a comfortable routine of dinners, drinks and great sex at whatever hotel Owen was staying in. Sometimes they just skipped to the sex because neither of them was under the impression that they had gotten together for anything as wholesome as a date.

“And I couldn’t be happier about it,” Owen laughed. He reached for his pilot’s cap, setting it on his head at a jaunty angle. “There’s no one I’d rather be divorced from than you, Jilly.”

“Obviously.” She gestured to his lap where the sheet was tented. She picked up his blue suit pants and jacket, smoothing them over the back of the desk chair. “We can’t keep doing this.”

“I can,” Owen said. “And, if we hurry, we can do it again before you have to leave for work.”

Jillian ignored him, something she’d learned to do selectively during their brief marriage. She swept her hair up into a messy bun, using a hotel pen to hold it in place. “If I had a therapist, she’d be very upset with me.”

“Who cares? We got married, it didn’t work out, we stayed friends and now we’re enjoying the benefits of our friendship.” Owen put on his watch, an Omega that Jillian had given him for their first wedding anniversary, even though they’d both known it’d be their last. He held up his arm and admired the way it looked on his tanned wrist. “It works for us. Why overanalyze it?”

Jillian frowned at the nondescript furniture and art. It was a typical mid-priced airport hotel room, but it and her ex had looked much more appealing in the near-dark of the night before.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because I’m 33 and you’re 35 and most of our friends, who are also in their 30s, are settled and having kids?” Jillian scooped up her clothes, her bare feet protesting slightly as they touched the cold bathroom tiles. “Maybe because I feel a little cheap meeting you at airport hotels for sex when you fly in? Or that I have to remember to keep an extra change of clothes in the trunk of my car so I don’t show up for work in yesterday’s outfit?”

“You want me to get you pregnant?” Owen asked. “I can’t promise anything beyond, you know, child support, but I’d be willing to do that for you.”

“Would you?” She turned to look at him, her face arranged in an expression of exaggerated gratitude.

“Yeah, I’ve always wanted to fuck a pregnant woman, but not too pregnant,” Owen yawned. “So when do you want to do this thing?”

“Hmm, let me see… How about
never
!” she said, and slammed the bathroom door on his smirking face.

****

The new Center Studio security guard waved Jillian through. She smiled at him as she passed, grateful that he knew her by sight even though she wasn’t sure if his name was Don or Ron. She pulled her car in her designated spot and waited for Trudy. They’d only known each other a couple of years, but had become instant best friends. Jillian couldn’t imagine life on or off the set without her.

They’d bonded their first day on the set of
Untitled
Maisy York Project
where Trudy was the wardrobe mistress and Jillian the set decorator. Since the producers weren’t sure if their yet-to-be titled series would be picked up beyond the initial pilot, they asked them to share an office until the future of the show was secure.

By the time the show got an official name,
Maisy York
, Jillian and Trudy decided they wanted to keep sharing a workspace even if it meant they had to stagger staff meetings and sacrifice some of the cachet that went with having their own offices.

 “Sorry I’m late, Ms. Winters,” Trudy said, slightly out of breath. She’d quit smoking a few months ago to ready herself to get pregnant, but hadn’t taken up anything more strenuous than the occasional lunchtime walk, and only then when Jillian nagged her into doing it. “The line at Starbucks was mega long and I had to send your latte back because it had foam.”

“Thank you, Ms. Ortiz,” Jillian said, using their familiar greeting. She inhaled the scent of hot lattes, muffins and Trudy’s subtle floral perfume. “I had sex with Owen last night.”

“Owen is a hot piece of ass and if I wasn’t happily married, I’d do him, too.” Trudy handed Jillian her latte. “Then I’d take a nuclear hot shower and go to a hypnotist to erase the memory.”

Jillian was about to speak when the screech of tires caused both her and Trudy to duck down as a cherry red BMW shot past them. Jillian peeked out the window and watched as it parked crookedly in the spot closest to the exit and out emerged the lithe, graceful figure of Maisy York, screaming into her cell phone.

“I don’t give a Haitian orphan’s ass!” Maisy’s cheeks were flushed red, almost as dark as the shade of her carefully-dyed hair. “I will not share a table with that woman!”

Trudy sank down into the passenger seat, but risked reaching up to adjust the rear-view mirror so they could both watch the actress pace back and forth as she continued her rant.

“It’s none of your business why! You work for me and that’s all you need to know.” Maisy whipped her sunglasses off and flung them to the garage floor.

“No,” Trudy moaned. “Those were loaners for a promo shoot.”

“Make her pay for them,” Jillian said, even though she knew full well that the quarter-million-dollars-per-episode actress had an almost allergic aversion to paying her bills.

When Maisy had asked her to decorate her Hollywood Hills Spanish-style home six months ago, Jillian had immediately said yes. A chance to branch out from set decorating to choosing linens and wall coverings for a real person, even if that person was Maisy York, was too good of an opportunity to pass up.

Even with all the headaches—color scheme changes, bickering over how much mid-century modern was too much in a Spanish-style home—Jillian had created a modern, luxurious but restrained showcase befitting a star who was determined to become known for her impeccable taste. Jillian had even managed to make the massive nude portrait of Maisy look like a piece of art and not just a testament to the actress’s vanity.

As happy as Jillian had been with the results of all her hard work, working for Maisy had also put her into debt. She’d been forced to juggle credit cards as she waited for Maisy to make good on the invoices Jillian dropped off with one of Maisy’s assistants every few weeks.

Both Jillian and Trudy cringed when Maisy stomped on the innocent glasses as she continued her tirade.

“If they want me to show up for their stupid charity event and mention it the next time I’m on
Ellen
, they better move that skanky bitch as far away from me as possible. The lobby would be preferable,” Maisy yelled, mangling the last word.

“Score two points for me,” Trudy said. As a joke, she’d given Maisy a word-of-the-day calendar for Christmas and, to her credit, Maisy seemed to be making use of it.

They both ducked down a little lower as Maisy walked past.

“That was bad,” Jillian sighed, knowing it was going to be one of those days. “Ms. York is on a tear. I pity you and the pair of Spanx you have to squeeze her into.”

“She did a juice cleanse over the weekend. So eat that obscenely large muffin at your own risk of having to be squeezed into Spanx.” Trudy set the muffin on the dashboard, just out of Jillian’s reach.

Jillian had never seen her friend happier than when they discovered that she was the same size and height as Maisy. Naturally thin and tall, Jillian had nevertheless always dreaded any occasion when she had to shed her sneakers, jeans and t-shirts. For Trudy’s sake, though, she tried on designer clothes so her friend could fit Maisy’s wardrobe without actually having to deal with the temperamental star.

“I’m too full of self-loathing to eat.” Jillian took a sip of her latte, smiling despite how lousy she was feeling about herself. Trudy had made sure it was exactly how Jillian wanted it: no foam and extra hot. “I mean, I know it’s just sex, but why does the sex have to be so good and why does it have to be with him?”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. It’s just sex,” Trudy said, starting in on the muffin. “It’s not like you’re going to marry the guy. Again.”

“God, no,” Jillian admitted without hesitation. “I come down with penis-induced amnesia when he calls, but that’s as far as it goes.”

“Good,” Trudy said before taking a huge bite of muffin. “I shouldn’t be eating this, but I’m married so I don’t have to worry about having a great sex life.”

“Your husband still being weird about the whole getting pregnant thing?” Jillian asked, knowing her friend had replaced cigarettes with baked goods for just that reason.

“He’s putting off getting his spunk checked.” Trudy gathered the muffin crumbs on her chest and lap into the palm of her hand and opened the door to toss them out. “The thing is, the harder it gets to get pregnant, the more I want
to be
pregnant.”

“It’ll happen.” Jillian reached over and patted her friend’s shoulder.

“And it’ll happen for you, too. But promise me it won’t be with Owen,” Trudy said, not bothering to mask her concern with a light tone.

“I promise.” Jillian crossed her heart and stared out the window. Her eyes tracked a plane as it banked away from Los Angeles and out toward the Pacific Ocean.

****

Jillian batted away cobwebs as she dug into the darkest recesses of the basement of Habitat—her beloved furniture and accessory store—flashlight in hand, searching through a tangle of lamps.

She startled when her cell phone rang in her back pocket. Jillian dusted her hands off on the front of her jeans before answering. “Hello?”