Hollywood Dirt
Page 22
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Someone had said something to him. DeLuca’s head was turned, both sets of eyes on him, expecting some sort of an answer. Cole lifted his chin, straightening off the railing. “I’m sorry, what?”
“It turns out there aren’t a lot of lodging options in Quincy but Bennington—”
“It’s Ben,” the man interrupted, practically fawning forward. Behind him, in the doorway, the girl reappeared, a baggy white T-shirt now pulled over her swimsuit, her wild hair contained in a ponytail. Her eyes met his, and he smiled, the Cole Masten smile that unlocked every door. She didn’t smile back. Shit. Everything was falling to hell, including his smile. He made a mental note to have Justin—to have someone—make him a dentist appointment. To practice in the mirror this evening and make sure that everything was working right. Maybe it was her. Maybe she was gay.
“Right,” DeLuca continued. “Ben says the lodging accommodations in town are fairly limited—that the closest town with any real hotels is Tallahassee—”
Cole’s ears perked up at this, his arms dropping from his chest. A college town. Bars. Sexy ass coeds who would beam up to him like his word was God’s. Maybe that would give the ego boost that, right now, seemed to be needed.
“—but I told him that wouldn’t work. That you needed to be in Quincy.” DeLuca smirked at him like he knew what he was thinking.
Oh, right. The rules. Cole slapped a mosquito on his neck in response, feeling a drop of sweat run down his back. “Not to ruin this delightful party,” he waved at another insect, “but could we move this inside? To the air conditioning?”
Bennington and the girl exchanged a quick look, then the girl smiled sweetly. “Certainly. Can I get y’all anything to drink? Some sweet tea, perhaps?”
CHAPTER 27
It only took eight minutes for my hero worship of Cole Masten to nose dive into a sea of dislike. His looks weren’t the problem; if anything, the man leaning against my railing was even better looking than on a movie screen. I studied him when he turned around, when he gripped the railing and looked out on the Holdens’ farm. And I saw a bit of pain—in the hunch of his shoulders, in the chew of his cheek, some torture in the eyes that had turned back around and met mine. I thought then, my hand resting on the doorknob, looking out on the front porch that held two of the sexiest men I had ever seen, that there was something there, in him, something whole and raw and beautiful.
Now, I know what I saw. I know what that something was. It was asshole, pure and simple. It was spoiled rotten—I get what I want because I deserve it, you are beneath me—asshole. I’ve experienced men like him before. Carl Hanson grew up on the same dirt I did, attended Quincy High just like me, danced with me at the Homecoming Dance, and rode dirt bikes with me in the summer. Then he graduated. Went to New York after UGA. Found out what Daddy’s money could buy him, found out what life outside our county line was like, and came back a few Christmases later. Looked so far down his nose at me I could see the specks of cocaine in his nostril. He palmed my ass like he owned it at the church winter social, and I punched him smack in the nose. Broke the knuckle of my index finger doing so, but it was worth it. Mr. Hanson paid my hospital bill. Came over and had tea with Mama and me and delivered a pile of apologies for the asshole that his son had become.
I had nine more knuckles and a well-healed tenth. If Cole Masten planned on following up his visual examination of my body with any action, I’d let him know how hard girls in the South could punch.
The start of my dislike began with his request to come inside. It was rude of him, the action a personal dig at my faux pas of not inviting them inside. One rude action pointing out another rude action did not cancel each other out; it just bought you an extra ticket to the Dickhead Show.
I should have invited them in; I know that. It was hot as blazes outside, the sun just low enough in the sky for the mosquitoes to journey out, the scent of fresh humans luring them closer. But the house was a mess, and Ben had promised me they wouldn’t come in. It was the only thing that had allowed me to open my front door with any composure. Because sure, I was in my bathing suit and some cut off shorts, but at least they wouldn’t know that my house was messy. That my bathroom trash had not been emptied. That the Honey O’s box from that morning was still sitting opened on my kitchen counter. All was salvageable until the pretty boy had to go and gripe about wanting to come in. So rude.
Cole Masten’s second strike came three minutes later, the men awkwardly standing in my living room while I flew around like a crazy woman attempting to get drinks.
I watched Cole from the corner of my eye, in deep discussion with his attorney, and noted the delicate white skin—skin that would bake in our sun. Each summer we literally fried an egg on the pavement. Just one egg, a local one from a local chicken, the egg carried and presented with great ceremony by our mayor. The frying was done on the previous summer’s hottest day of the year, and it was always an event, time taken out of everyone’s non-busy schedule to bring potluck items and huddle around the Smith Bank & Trust parking lot to stare at one of Mama Gentry’s sad little eggs. Sometimes they fried quickly; other times it was unseasonably reasonable and only a few bubbles of excitement were produced. So yeah, eggs fried in our sun. His California pale skin would crinkle up like crispy bacon. I contemplated, while opening cabinets and searching for glasses, my damp suit getting itchy, offering him sunscreen, a friendly Welcome to Quincy gift. I hadn’t. Instead, yanking open the dishwasher, I made a side bet with myself that the next time I saw him, he’d look like a lobster.
“It turns out there aren’t a lot of lodging options in Quincy but Bennington—”
“It’s Ben,” the man interrupted, practically fawning forward. Behind him, in the doorway, the girl reappeared, a baggy white T-shirt now pulled over her swimsuit, her wild hair contained in a ponytail. Her eyes met his, and he smiled, the Cole Masten smile that unlocked every door. She didn’t smile back. Shit. Everything was falling to hell, including his smile. He made a mental note to have Justin—to have someone—make him a dentist appointment. To practice in the mirror this evening and make sure that everything was working right. Maybe it was her. Maybe she was gay.
“Right,” DeLuca continued. “Ben says the lodging accommodations in town are fairly limited—that the closest town with any real hotels is Tallahassee—”
Cole’s ears perked up at this, his arms dropping from his chest. A college town. Bars. Sexy ass coeds who would beam up to him like his word was God’s. Maybe that would give the ego boost that, right now, seemed to be needed.
“—but I told him that wouldn’t work. That you needed to be in Quincy.” DeLuca smirked at him like he knew what he was thinking.
Oh, right. The rules. Cole slapped a mosquito on his neck in response, feeling a drop of sweat run down his back. “Not to ruin this delightful party,” he waved at another insect, “but could we move this inside? To the air conditioning?”
Bennington and the girl exchanged a quick look, then the girl smiled sweetly. “Certainly. Can I get y’all anything to drink? Some sweet tea, perhaps?”
CHAPTER 27
It only took eight minutes for my hero worship of Cole Masten to nose dive into a sea of dislike. His looks weren’t the problem; if anything, the man leaning against my railing was even better looking than on a movie screen. I studied him when he turned around, when he gripped the railing and looked out on the Holdens’ farm. And I saw a bit of pain—in the hunch of his shoulders, in the chew of his cheek, some torture in the eyes that had turned back around and met mine. I thought then, my hand resting on the doorknob, looking out on the front porch that held two of the sexiest men I had ever seen, that there was something there, in him, something whole and raw and beautiful.
Now, I know what I saw. I know what that something was. It was asshole, pure and simple. It was spoiled rotten—I get what I want because I deserve it, you are beneath me—asshole. I’ve experienced men like him before. Carl Hanson grew up on the same dirt I did, attended Quincy High just like me, danced with me at the Homecoming Dance, and rode dirt bikes with me in the summer. Then he graduated. Went to New York after UGA. Found out what Daddy’s money could buy him, found out what life outside our county line was like, and came back a few Christmases later. Looked so far down his nose at me I could see the specks of cocaine in his nostril. He palmed my ass like he owned it at the church winter social, and I punched him smack in the nose. Broke the knuckle of my index finger doing so, but it was worth it. Mr. Hanson paid my hospital bill. Came over and had tea with Mama and me and delivered a pile of apologies for the asshole that his son had become.
I had nine more knuckles and a well-healed tenth. If Cole Masten planned on following up his visual examination of my body with any action, I’d let him know how hard girls in the South could punch.
The start of my dislike began with his request to come inside. It was rude of him, the action a personal dig at my faux pas of not inviting them inside. One rude action pointing out another rude action did not cancel each other out; it just bought you an extra ticket to the Dickhead Show.
I should have invited them in; I know that. It was hot as blazes outside, the sun just low enough in the sky for the mosquitoes to journey out, the scent of fresh humans luring them closer. But the house was a mess, and Ben had promised me they wouldn’t come in. It was the only thing that had allowed me to open my front door with any composure. Because sure, I was in my bathing suit and some cut off shorts, but at least they wouldn’t know that my house was messy. That my bathroom trash had not been emptied. That the Honey O’s box from that morning was still sitting opened on my kitchen counter. All was salvageable until the pretty boy had to go and gripe about wanting to come in. So rude.
Cole Masten’s second strike came three minutes later, the men awkwardly standing in my living room while I flew around like a crazy woman attempting to get drinks.
I watched Cole from the corner of my eye, in deep discussion with his attorney, and noted the delicate white skin—skin that would bake in our sun. Each summer we literally fried an egg on the pavement. Just one egg, a local one from a local chicken, the egg carried and presented with great ceremony by our mayor. The frying was done on the previous summer’s hottest day of the year, and it was always an event, time taken out of everyone’s non-busy schedule to bring potluck items and huddle around the Smith Bank & Trust parking lot to stare at one of Mama Gentry’s sad little eggs. Sometimes they fried quickly; other times it was unseasonably reasonable and only a few bubbles of excitement were produced. So yeah, eggs fried in our sun. His California pale skin would crinkle up like crispy bacon. I contemplated, while opening cabinets and searching for glasses, my damp suit getting itchy, offering him sunscreen, a friendly Welcome to Quincy gift. I hadn’t. Instead, yanking open the dishwasher, I made a side bet with myself that the next time I saw him, he’d look like a lobster.
