Who knows? Maybe one day I’ll thank Ethan for breaking my heart. Without him I would never have packed up all my life’s possessions—a small enclosed trailer full—and made the drive across a half dozen states to start a fresh life.Okay, that’s pushing it.Hopefully I’ll never have to thank him, because I never want to see his cheating, pretentious face again.
I only wish living my best life looked a little more glamorous. A little less one-step-away-from-being-broke-and-homeless.
Unlocking the trunk to my car, Iron Maiden as I named her years ago, I arrange the cases of makeup and supplies so they won’t tip over. It’s a system I have down pat, placing my collapsible roller cart inside last. Sweat beads on my upper lip and brow, the California mid-morning summer sun in full force. There isn’t a cloud in the sky, and I can’t even complain, even though my makeup is about to be toast, because this is what I came here for. Sunshine. Warmth. A new life.
“Hey, lady! You moving or not?” a man shouts from an idling car.
“Sorry!” I hold up one finger to indicate he should wait, then slam my trunk shut and slide around to start up Iron Maiden. The Buick is as old as I am, with rust marring her silver paint, but I wouldn’t dream of trading her in. Not that I could afford something better.
It’s okay. It doesn’t bother me. She runs just fine, even if the AC is mostly shot. The engine turns over with a gentle stutter and rumble, then I’m on my way toward today’s movie set, an indie film where they’ve hired me to do makeup. Yeah, that’s the thought that paints a smile on my face, even when I hit bumper-to-bumper traffic on the interstate. The universe might try to kill my buzz, but I refuse to let it ruin the good thing I have going. Each week I’m building my client list. Booking new jobs, working on films, photoshoots, and filling in the odd hours with “traveling makeup artist” appointments booked via a new app. Technology is a beautiful thing.
With the windows rolled down, I sing along to an old Backstreet song, ignoring the funny looks I get. Whatever. They might act like they don’t love this song, but I bet they know all the words. If it came on while they were in the shower, they’d sing along.
I slow for another stall in traffic. Sing another line to the chorus. Wait for the car ahead to inch forward. The brake lights clear and for the first time all morning I reach the speed limit. The cars in front pull forward, creating a safe distance to accelerate further. Only, when I press my foot to feed Iron Maiden gas, she gives a little jolt before the engine stumbles. “Shit.” The needle on my dash drops, the rpms abnormally diving. “Come on, baby,” I soothe the car, but as I tap the gas, the engine cuts completely.
“No, no, no, no, no . . . Shit! No!” This is not happening. This cannot happen. I glance to the time on my cell, and signal as I roll to a stop in the emergency lane. I wait a moment, offer up a silent prayer, then try turning the key but there’s no rumble to life. “Oh, come on.”
There’s no one to call. I’m already pinched for time. Hell, with as far as I have to go, I’m not sure I can even afford an Uber. I need to be on set in thirty minutes. I also really need the paycheck. “Don’t let me down. Not when I need you most.” I’m no mechanic. I don’t know what else to do, so I blow my bangs from my forehead, reach down to pop the hood, and make my way out to assess the damage. This isnothow I pictured today going.
3
Jude
Another day, another dollar. Another unique delivery, along with a generous finder’s fee. I’m driving my black Escalade today, the one with the Limo tint windows. I feel exceptionally badass in this beast. With my mirrored sunglasses and tailored black suit, I resemble the hero in an action film destined to save the world, or run a drug cartel. This vehicle doesn’t have the same zip and go as one of my sports cars, but none of the fuel efficient cars attempt to cut me off, which makes for a smoother ride—my exact intent given the crate strapped to the floor of the middle row.
I ease off the gas at the rush of red brake lights ahead. Both the driver on my right and the one to my left slam down on their horns and curse at the sudden slow of traffic.Rookies. Traffic in LA is a bitch. Plain and simple. Getting upset over it only gives a person high blood pressure. Life’s too precious to get pissed every time there’s traffic.
I crank up my tunes and recline my seat, settling in for the delay. I was up before the sun to receive today’s delivery of precious cargo in anticipation of a long ride. I try to avoid LAX altogether, but given the circumstances it couldn’t be helped. Reaching into my center console, I pop open the bag of candy I picked up from the gas station and rip off the wrapper. I check my reflection in the mirror and chuckle. The white paper stick protruding from my pursed lips definitely kills my badass vibe, but I can’t find it in me to care. I have a sweet tooth, not to mention a bit of an oral fixation. Sue me.
Twenty minutes and five lollipops later, I inch toward the vehicle responsible for today’s traffic jam. I kinda feel sorry for the poor sucker. Drivers ahead throw up their middle fingers and shout obscenities as they finally pass.
I get ready to increase my speed too when I’m rendered temporarily immobile.
Whoa. Fuck me.
Who is this? Standing at the side of the freeway like a desert mirage pulled directly from my most erotic fantasies, I can’t take my eyes off her. She’s fucking gorgeous, even if she looks ten seconds from crying.
Her car—no, more like boat—is parked in the narrow emergency lane, but the Buick’s wide back end sticks out into the right lane—the cause of this little traffic hiccup. The hood is popped, but this beauty in distress paces near the rear of her busted down vehicle. With her phone to her ear and her attention on the vehicle, I take a moment to study her features. Long dark hair. Tan skin. Curves for days. Her lips, painted in a ruby red that matches the tight skirt of her dress, is reminiscent of a pinup girl, and stirs a wave of desire below my belt.
I’m jolted from my perusal by the blare of a car horn behind me. Shit. While I’ve been staring, traffic has moved, but instead of closing the empty roadway before me, I flip on my hazards and pull in behind her.
She leans against the concrete barrier wall, distress in her scowl as I step out of my SUV and maneuver safely to stand before her. Her hand grips her cell phone. Her gaze is wary.
“Car trouble?”
“Yeah.”
“Can I help?”
“Unless you’re a mechanic”—her gaze travels down my designer three-piece suit—“and I’m gonna guess that’s a no, then not really.”
“It’s dangerous out here.”
“Yeah, I’ve been trying to get a tow.” Her lips press together and that expression—the one in which she looks seconds from crying, is back.
I take a step closer. “Let me guess. No one picking up?”
“Yeah, that and one guy said he couldn’t get here for another four hours.” She drags in a breath and blinks rapidly. I don’t know her, but something about the gesture tugs at my heartstrings. I want to take away her stress. “I have to be on set in thirty minutes.”
