Unscripted (13 page)

“’S not a date,” he said. “I’m . . . just going out with . . . some mates.”

My stepbrother sounded cagey—well, cagier than usual. I eyed him suspiciously. “What ‘mates’?”

He shrugged his wiry shoulders as he hitched up his madras shorts. “Just a couple of mates who’re feeling a little down. Thought I might cheer them up.”

“Wait, let me guess. They’re ‘feeling down’ because they’re broke and you’re going to make sure they have a good time. On my dime.”

“Think of this as an investment.”

I raised an eyebrow and waited.

“If all goes well, I could have a gig. And you’d get your house back.”

Well, that changed things. “I approve. Go. Get adopted by somebody.”

“Can I borrow the car, Mum?”

I made a grand gesture toward the keys on the hall table, then looked at Jaya and shook my head, and she forced a smile. It was still a little awkward between us, face to face.

“So . . . ,” she ventured tentatively, “we good?”

“You can buy the rest of your forgiveness by giving me all the gossip from the set.”

“Oh, then there was no need for me to bring these peace offerings of red velvet cupcakes and wine—?”

“I didn’t say
that.
” I grabbed the pink-and-white striped bakery box and led her into the living room.

Once we were settled on the sofa with a trashy reality show on the TV and refined sugar working its way into our systems, it started to feel like old times.

“Spill,” I ordered.

“All in good time,” Jaya mumbled, licking cream-cheese frosting off her thumb. “First, I want to hear about this thing you did.” I rolled my eyes. “You went to Moreno Valley?” The way she said it made it sound like Mars. “Just to find Alex?”

“Which I failed to do—which I was
prevented
from doing by some self-appointed guard dogs—so I’m going back tomorrow. Not like I’ve got anything else going on, after all,” I added, trolling for sympathy.

Jaya sipped her wine, a thoughtful look on her finely planed face. She ran her fingers through her thick black hair. “Faith, maybe trying to get Alex back wasn’t such a good idea.”

“No, it was a great idea. You were right—he’s just what we need to get the show back on track.”

“I meant bad for your emotional health. Because of . . . how it was before he left. And . . . ,” she hesitated, then said in a rush, “what he was to you too.”

I pulled a face and tried to make a scoffing noise, but it came out as a strangled snort. “You mean, how he was my go-to guy for ratings, until he turned into a pain in my ass?”

“Sure. Okay. That’s all he was.”

Jamie, following the food as usual, entered the room and, oblivious that we were having a conversation that was fast entering dangerous waters, blithely reached for a cupcake. I slapped his hand away without taking my eyes off Jaya. “What’s
that
supposed to mean?” I demanded, scrambling up onto my high horse whether I belonged there or not.

“Oh my God, woman.” Jaya shook her head. “Good thing you’re
behind
the camera. You’re a shitty actor.”

I froze. Jamie, persistent as a seagull, swooped in again. This time he snagged a goodie and scooted out of the room before I could slap him again. I reached for my glass of wine. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Okay,” she said again, and I could hear the smugness in her voice. I needed to keep looking anywhere but at her. The depths of my zinfandel was a good place. Yeah. “It’s okay, you know,” she said after a few seconds. “Alex is hot. You’re human. It’s no big deal.”

“I admit nothing,” I finally spat out. “Besides, I don’t have time for romantic shit. Never have.”

“Wha—!” She laughed. “That’s what half your show is about every week!”

“Of course. I save it for the plotlines. It’s much easier that way. Running the show takes all my time and energy, anyway. You should be feeling that by now.”

Jaya shrugged and plucked another cupcake from the box. “Not really.”

“Then you’re not doing it right.”

“I do it
differently.
I delegate. You have an amazing crew who can take care of things just fine, but you never used them to their full potential. I do. Whatever I ask them to take on, they can—and they do it willingly. But
you
. . . you always had to do everything yourself. You never trusted anyone else.” She squinted at me like I was a specimen in a petri dish. “And you know, I think that ended up extending into your romantic relationships—or lack thereof.”

“It’s not about trust,” I protested. “It’s just . . .
easier
to take care of things myself. Fewer hassles, and it gets done right the first time.”

“That explains the collection of vibrators in your bedside table drawer, then,” Jamie crowed as he headed for the front door.

I threw a cupcake at his head; he deftly caught it, peeled back the paper, took a bite, and waved. “Nighty-night, ladies.”

He slammed the door behind him, and I sank back against the sofa cushions and crossed my arms. “I should evict him.”

“But you won’t, because you love him.”

I whuffed.

Jaya continued delicately, “Okay, hanging with your stepbrother is noble and all, but it’s no replacement for a love life. Which you’ve never had as long as I’ve known you.”

“Not talking about this.”

“When
was
the last time you had a relationship, Faith? Or . . . forget relationship. When was the last time you . . . you know . . . because Alex would be a prime candidate for a little bit of—”

“Yo, Dr. Ruth—what did I just say? Changing the subject now.”

Jaya shrugged and finally gave up. I took advantage of her silence to move the conversation on to a new topic—or, rather, not so new, but much safer for me.

“I’ve been thinking about the show—”

“Quelle surprise.”

“—and I’ve got some ideas to tide you over till I get back—”

Jaya clapped her hands over her ears. “No! Don’t tell me anything.”

“Why? Because my ideas will suck?”

“Of course not. Because they’ll be brilliant . . . and they’ll obviously be yours. Nobody comes up with plotlines for the show like you do. I can’t trot out your ideas and pretend I thought of them. It’d be too obvious.”

“Speaking of writing . . .” I hesitated a moment, then asked what I’d been dying to ever since we decided to get together tonight. “Is . . . is Randy B. really trying to hire a writing staff?”

“Where’d you hear it?”

“You wouldn’t believe it.” And I told her about Mr. Professor Mason Mitchell, head of the theater department at Inland Empire Community College and erstwhile applicant for a job on
Modern Women
. “Do you remember him?”

“Yeah, sure. Met him in passing. According to Elizabeth, he was good. Really good.”

“‘According to Elizabeth’?” I repeated, agape. “You didn’t interview these writers yourself?”

“Faith. Del-e-gate,” Jaya drew out, holding her hand out in three places in succession, to go with each syllable. “Elizabeth’s a good writer—whom
you
never gave enough responsibility, I might add. Who better to choose?”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re a management genius. So why didn’t he get the job?”

“He
did
get the job,” Jaya said casually, refilling her wineglass. “He turned it down.”

“That can’t be right. We must not be talking about the same person.” The vibe I got from Mason was that he had gotten a big fat “no” from the suits. “Looks kind of like Owen Wilson? Only better-looking? Without the canoe-paddle nose. Like . . . someone who would be Owen Wilson’s taller brother.”

“Luke Wilson then.”

“Entirely unlike Luke Wilson.”

“You’re making my brain hurt.”

“Anyway—”

“No, honestly, Faith. That’s the guy. Really talented. Really cute too,” she added, with an evil glint in her eye. I ignored that. She was baiting me. Besides, this wasn’t about cute. “He turned down the job. I remember. I was surprised because Elizabeth said that in his interview he was going on and on about how great you were and how much he wanted to be on the
Modern Women
staff. Sounded like he was quite the fanboi.” She eyed me shrewdly, dark eyes twinkling. “You’ve got yourself an admirer, girl. Hey, maybe
he’d
be a good candidate for a little—”

“No!”

Chapter 8

Yeah, that was
all
I needed rattling around in my brain as I headed back to the college the next morning—the knowledge that a guy I thought was pretty hot (I couldn’t deny it) was a fan and a candidate for a little . . .

On a mission,
I reminded myself.
Alex. Focus. Alex.

But when I charged back into the theater, it was completely empty. And dark. No sounds of activity or voices, not even from somewhere backstage. Crap. I went back into the lobby. There had to be
some
body around, didn’t there?

Two sets of double doors, a pair on either side of the entrance to the auditorium, seemed like a good place to start looking for signs of life. I chose the ones on the left. Behind them lay a bright white hallway that followed the curve of the building. It was so quiet my footsteps on the linoleum sounded like gunshots. I tried to walk silently, which only made me clomp louder somehow. I checked some of the rooms through the narrow rectangular windows in the doors. Each was empty and dark.

Then, with my platform Frankenstein shoes silent, I could hear a voice in the distance—male, talking and then stopping, obviously on the phone. Maybe he could tell me why this place was like a morgue. I went farther around the curve, and the voice got louder. Finally I found the open door and peeked inside.

Crap.

Mason, looking down at his desk while he talked on the phone. I recognized his distinctive profile.

I pulled my head back quickly. It was likely he hadn’t seen me, which was just fine. All that stuff Jaya had said about him being an admirer was still pinging around in my brain, and it muddled up my insides enough that I wanted to be as far from this guy as possible. It was the safest option.

I considered taking my shoes off to sneak away, tossed that idea, and instead lifted my foot high, optimistic that I could take slow, careful, and, most important,
silent
steps out of there.

Then, “Come on in, Ms. Sinclair.”

Crappity crap crap.

I turned around. The doorway was empty; he hadn’t gotten up from his desk yet.
I could still make a run for it,
I thought a little frantically.

“I know you’re out there. I can hear you breathing.”

I dragged myself into the doorway. He leaned back in his chair, his long legs spread wide as he rotated the chair with his heels.

I feebly lifted my hand in greeting. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself. Back again?”

“Yep.”

“Please,” he gestured, inviting me into his office.

I inched forward. Mason’s chair was in the middle of the room, his desk against the wall to the left. The desk was nice and old, wood, but not quite an antique, and engulfed in piles of paper.
As it should be,
I thought. As usual, I started mentally set dressing “College Faculty Office.” I would have added wood paneling to the walls, and many-paned windows, to be sort of Harvard/Yale/Oxford-looking. These windows were long and narrow, running all the way to the floor, like the ones in the foyer, and didn’t open. That left enough room for several metal bookcases and a cheesy-looking ’70s couch straight out of the Bradys’ den: wood frame and mustard-colored cushions.

“Sit, relax. Want some coffee?”

“Uh . . .” I didn’t want to stay long enough for coffee.

He reached into a tiny fridge under a just-as-small wooden table where the coffee machine sat and came up with a jug. “I promise not to make it with tap water.”

“Oh, I was kind of hoping you would. It had a flavor.”

“And texture too. Bubble tea’s got nothing on chunky coffee. Patent pending.” He grinned at me as he poured the water into the coffeemaker. A smile wriggled onto my lips whether I wanted it there or not. I watched him put the water away and open up a bag of coffee. He glanced over his shoulder again. “What?”

I crossed my arms and leaned on the door jamb. “A college professor wearing a tweed jacket with patches on the elbows—isn’t that a bit of a cliché?”

He laughed outright at this, and the spot behind my navel fluttered a bit. I realized I really liked his laugh. And his smile.
Stop. That way lies madness.
“I had a meeting with the trustees this morning, so I decided I should look the part. Sit,” he prompted again, gesturing at the Brady couch.