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“No shit,” Logan said darkly. “And if you want to keep all your parts intact, I suggest you stay the hell out of her way. She’s been a total bitch lately and no one seems to know how to handle her.”
Tucker took a good long drink from his mug, wiped foam from the corner of his mouth and grinned at his brother. “I think this is gonna be a fun little road trip, brother. Glad you invited me along.”
Beau didn’t say a word, because he had no intention of staying out of Betty’s way. He took a sip of cold draft and smiled.
No intention at all.
Chapter Thirteen
IT WAS FRIDAY night. Well over twenty-four hours since Betty had seen Beau at The Grill.
And she was still pissed off. Her body literally hummed with repressed anger.
The kicker? She didn’t know what to do about it. In the past she would have lost herself in a handful of pills and washed them down with vodka. But the whole new leaf thing wasn’t exactly conducive to that sort of behavior.
So how’s that working out? She asked herself.
Her anger had come from nowhere and on so many levels didn’t even make sense. But that was Betty Jo. Nothing about her made sense.
Nothing.
“Do you know how identical triplets are formed?” she asked.
Her buddy Matt Hawkins lifted his head from the sofa—their butts were parked in the Barker front room—and frowned.
“Are you on drugs?”
“I wish,” she said. “But no.” She sat up. “Triplets, identical triplets, happen when one single egg divides into two eggs.”
“That would be twins.”
“I know. But then one of the eggs splits again. Almost like an afterthought. A bad egg.” She shook her head. “That’s me. That’s always been me. The bad egg.”
“I don’t believe you,” Matt said.
“It’s true.”
“No, I believe your scientific explanation. I tutored you in biology, remember? I don’t believe you’re not high. Because you sure as hell sound like you smoked one.”
Betty tossed a pillow and Matt ducked just in time. “What the hell am I going to do?”
“About what? The movie? Or your bad egg complex?”
“Don’t be an asshole.”
He smiled. “I can’t help it.” Matt paused. “Look, do you think you have the chops to do this movie? Or is it just a pipe dream?”
“I know I can do it. Jesus, Matt. It’s like the main character, Eden, was written for me.”
She is me.
Betty had finally broken down and read the script the night before after coming home from The Grill in a foul mood. The script was where she’d left it, there on the front porch, and she grabbed it on her way into the house. Nearly two hours later, Gramps had found her sitting at the kitchen table, crying.
Crying because it was so damn, good. So achingly, beautiful it hurt.
Crying because she wanted it so badly.
Crying because there was no way in hell she could work with Beau Simon and since it was his movie, his script, she knew that she could never accept the role.
