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Raising Ryder: Episode207
If I pony-up my balls for the producers ofThe Pack, I get my job back. Because I won’t consider my agent’s second option, that about bottom-lines his call.
I inherited him from Mom duringRaising Ryder. She’s sifted through several agencies, but I’ve stuck it out. Billy and his good ’ole boy county-twang have a knack for saving my ass. Even though this time, I’m far from stoked over how he did it.
My stomach growls. Kicking my feet onto the ottoman that matches Jess’s chair, I flick a hungry gaze toward the food room service delivered, wondering what’s taking my girl so long to get back to her room.
Twenty minutes into an episode ofWalking Dead, she finally slips in. She kicks off her shoes, tosses her conference badge on the desk, and grips the chair. “What did your agent say?”
I mute the TV and toss the remote on the ottoman. “He set up a conference call in the morning with me and David.”
She kneels in front of the ottoman by my bare feet and gestures to my face. “Those are new.”
“Vain, remember?” I touch the rim of the glasses I hardly wear and shoot her a mock arrogant wink. “My eyes itch when I wear Jax’s contacts too long. Didn’t feel like putting my regular contacts back in.”
She studies my eyes, tilting her head so her hair cascades over one shoulder. “I like them. They make you look—”
“Super-duper sexy?” I give her a geeky pose.
“Smart.” She rests her elbows on the ottoman.
Smart is not a word often associated with me. Ask my on-set tutor. But Jess’s gaze keeps darting between my eyes and my mouth, so maybe the glasses don’t totally suck. “You hungry?” I gesture to the silver-domed dishes waiting on the end of her bed.
Her hand goes to her stomach. “You didn’t have to wait.” She pushes both plates to the corner and stretches out on her bed—facedown, feet by the pillows—and groans. Not in a come-and-get-me way. In a my-day-royally-sucked way.
Second-guessing my decision to leave her with Vi, I join her, my back against the headboard by her feet. I wrap my hand around the bottom of her socked foot and work my thumb into her arch.
She pillows her head on her arms, flexes her foot into my palm, and practically purrs.
It’s a nice sound that gets under my skin in just the right way.
She pushes her toes against my fingers and moans, “Don’t stop.”
Two words every guy wants to hear. A certain part of my anatomy takes them out of context. Hoping she doesn’t notice, I spend the next few minutes smoothing my fingers over her foot to thoughts ofSound of Musicnuns, Oprah wearing chaps, and Mick Jagger’s mouth.
After I’ve rubbed both her feet long enough to send her into a foot-massage coma, I tuck her toes next to my leg and reach for my plate. When I’m finished inhaling my bacon burger, all my fries, and downing an entire Coke, I stroke the back of her calf. “You should eat.”
“Not hungry.”
This is how Coley gets when she’s stressed. Fifteen pounds later, she’s falling out of her jeans. “Something went down between you and Vi.” Something Jess doesn’t want to deal with. I get denial. I’m marinating in it. I move down the bed so my head is next to hers.
“It’s fine.” She rolls toward me, bunches her fingers into her hair, tugs on the roots.
I prop up on one elbow and cradle the curve of her hip. “Lay it on me, Escalator Girl.”
Her eyes shift to my chest, and her legs can’t quite stay still. “My dad’s been sleeping with Vi for a year.”
“What else?” I wait for the rest.
“What do you mean what else?” She tips up her chin. “They’ve been lying to me. Isn’t that enough?”
“If it were just that, you’d be or mad or hurt, not cranked-up anxious.”
At first the only sound in the room is the click of the heater coming on, then she whispers, “My editor’s coming for my release party.”
“Okay.” Because she looks a little shocky, I’m neutral with my tone.
“It’s not okay.” She covers her face with a curtain of silky brown hair.
