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Confession: I knew the Evanses would be going tonight. And I knew Stacey would be here this afternoon.
You don’t even have to pay me to be a detective.
“You are?” She perks up. “Is Redix your date?”
No. Redix is my heart smashed into pieces.
Silas is my date, the man I wish could put it back together. But the adult in me knows that’s my damn job and no one else’s.
“No, I’m going with a guy friend. A very hot one.”
“Two hot men in a lifetime? What’s your trick?”
There are no tricks.
Just fate, who’s a real fuckwad sometimes.
Still, I want to make Stacey laugh. “The trick is…” Her eyes widen. “You gotta be shameless and willing to try all tricks.”
Bull’s eye. That strikes something in her that sparks a deep smile that lessens my guilt.
“So, I’ll see you there?” She touches my arm like she needs someone to have fun with.
I do, too.
“Yeah, I’ll look for you and maybe afterward.” How the hell am I gonna pull this off? “Let’s grab coffee sometime. I’ll tell you more of my tricks.”
“It’s a date,” she replies like we just met on the playground and’ll be besties for life.
And maybe, even in this fucked up, scary world of some shitty men, that’s how women survive it.
CHAPTER FIVE
If there’s one woman I’ll never doubt, it’s Lorraine Morris.
She’s got my back. She’s covered my ass.
And she writes hit shows and shares my love of greasy burgers. It was my first week in LA. I was finding caloric comfort in scarfing one down at Tommy’s and…
“Young man”—Lorraine had no fear, and I had grease dripping down my wrists—“you belong on the screen.”
We were ride or die instantly.
Lorraine gives me the best roles and too many chances. So fuck yes, I move heaven and earth to help her too. She’s got to make an appearance at this swanky holiday party, and I’ll be another Lowcountry tourist attraction to help her ratings.
Lorraine hooks her arm in mine and declares, “Let’s shovel some shit!” while our feet step aboard the Georgia Queen, Savannah’s famous riverboat, for what’s sure to be a cruise through southern politics.
The December night is warm enough to roam the decks of the three-level boat and ignore the big egos inside. But that’s why Lorraine’s here. We head straight for the ballroom with its gold ceiling, and I hear them; gasps and murmurs the minute we enter the large room.
Yeah, I’m used to it.
So is Lorraine. She’s almost as famous. And you can’t miss her signature braided locks, red eyeglasses, and “don’t fuck with me” smile.
I side whisper, “Who do we schmooze first?”
“Everyone who gives me permission to shoot my shows in this state,” she replies.
“Shows?”
