Page 9 of Breaking Hollywood

I hold up a hand, stopping him. “I don’t want your money for a cab. I can pay for my own cabs.” For now at least. “And, as much as I’d like to leave you here, my conscience won’t allow it. I have to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m okay. There. Your conscience is eased.”

“Funny. I didn’t know you became a doctor in the five years it took to drive here.”

“That’s weird because, the speed you drove, it felt more like five seconds to get here.”

“I did not speed! I stuck to the speed limit the whole way. And I got you to the hospital in one piece, didn’t I?”

He eyes his broken foot with a raised brow.

“That doesn’t count because it was already broken before I got in the car with you.”

“Your logic is screwed up.”

“It is not! God, you’re so annoying.” I glare at him.

“And smoking hot, Speedy. Don’t forget that.”

Argh!

“I never said you were smoking hot! I said I would haunt your smoking ass! As in the fact that you smoke—which is a disgusting habit, FYI—and I was using the word ass as an insult, you ass! I do not think that your ass is hot! Seriously! I would rather kiss a toad’s ass than ever think that your ass is hot! I do think that you’re vain, crude, argumentative, and seriously annoying though!” I break off, breathing hard. I’m pretty sure I have steam coming out of my ears.

Jesus, I barely know him, and I want to strangle him! No one has ever annoyed me more than he does. And it’s so disappointing because I thought he was awesome. That was before I got to know him, of course.

“Has my hair gone gray?” he asks, pressing a hand to his head.

“No.” I frown. “Why?”

“Because I feel like I just lost twenty years of my life after listening to your little rant. Seriously, Speedy, you should consider getting help with that verbal diarrhea that falls out of your mouth. I know a good vocal coach who might be able to work on it with you. He normally just works on accents and word pronunciations, but he should be able to help you learn to speak properly.”

“Ha-ha. You’re hilarious. And twenty years? You’ll be lucky to see another ten if you keep smoking your nicotine sticks at the rate you do.”

“I’ll outlive you, Speedy. The way you drive, especially in that golf-cart car of yours”—he rubs his chin in thought—“I give you two years. Three, tops.”

Eyes narrowed, I tip my head to the side. “Want to bet on that?”

A grin spreads across his face. “Oh, I’m all for betting, Speedy. But you wouldn’t like the stakes. And, also, there’ll be no satisfaction in my winning because you’ll be dead, and I won’t be able to claim my win or flaunt my victory in your face.”

I give him a smart smirk. “You keep telling yourself that, Hoppy. And, as nice as this conversation is, we can’t sit—sorry, I mean, I don’t want to sit here all day with you. So, let’s get you inside and to your brother.”

“I told you, I don’t need your help.”

“And I told you, I’m coming. So, unless you want me to take out your other foot as well, you’ll stop arguing with me and get out of the car.”

“Fine,” he grunts. “Just let me get ready before we go in.”

“Aw, do you need to do your hair and makeup before we go inside in case you get papped?” I laugh at my own joke.

“Ha. You’re a comedian,” he says in a droll voice. “No, I need to put on my ball cap and sunglasses just to prevent me from being recognized.”

I watch as he opens the glove box. He pulls out a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses and slips them on, followed by a Lakers ball cap, which he fits on over his hair.

“Ready?” I ask.

He nods.

I climb out of the car. When I make it around to his side, he’s already out, resting on his good foot, holding on to the car with his hand.