The Things She Says

He’d left his condo in L.A. before dawn this morning, intending to drive straight through to Dallas, where he’d meet up with Kyla to start the engagement publicity and get rolling on preproduction work for Visions.

But one more Kyla-free night now felt less like a reprieve and more like a requirement.

He just wanted to make films, not deal with financing and publicity and endless Hollywood bureaucracy. Visions of Black was the right vehicle to propel his career to the next level, with the perfect blend of accessible characters, high-stakes drama and a tension-filled plot. Audiences would love Kyla in the starring role, and her charisma on the screen was unparalleled. She was a necessary part of the package, first and foremost because executive producer Jack Abrams insisted, but Kris couldn’t disagree with the dual benefit of box-office draw and high-profile PR.

The need to commit this story to film flared strongly enough that he was willing to deal with his ex and any other obstacles thrown in his path.

Tomorrow.

VJ skirted the tables and rejoined him, smiling expectantly. “Fried chicken?”

“Absolutely.” Nobody in L.A. ate fried chicken and the hearty smell of it had been teasing him since he walked through the door. “And a beer.”

“Excellent choice. Except you’re in the middle of the Bible Belt. Coke instead?” she offered.

“You don’t serve alcohol?” A glance around the diner answered that question. Every glass was filled with deep brown liquid. Five bucks said it was outrageously sweet tea.

“Sorry. I’m afraid it’s dry as a bone here.” She leaned in close and waggled her eyebrows. “We’re all good Baptists. Except behind closed doors, you know.”

He knew. Where he came from, everyone was Greek Orthodox except behind closed doors. Different label, same hypocrisy. “Coke is fine.”

“I’ll have it right out for you, sir.”

He almost groaned. “You can stop with the sir nonsense. Come right back. Keep me company,” he said.

Keep the locals at bay. A convenient excuse, but a poor one. He liked VJ, and he’d have to leave soon enough. Was it terrible to record as much of her as possible through the camera in his head until then?

“I can’t. I’m working.”

“Doing what?” He waved at the dining room. “This place is practically empty.”

Her probing gaze roamed over his face, as if searching for something, and the pursuit was so affecting, he felt oddly compelled to give it to her, no matter what it was.

“Okay,” she said. “But only for a few minutes.”

She glided through the haphazard maze of tables and bent over her order pad, then handed it to the middle-aged woman in the kitchen. Pearl, if he had to guess.

The brutish brothers, clearly adopted, continued to shoot malevolent grimaces over their shoulders, but hadn’t left their stools again.

Only a couple of things were guaranteed to rile Kris’s temper—challenging his artistic vision and picking on someone weaker. Otherwise, he stayed out of it. Drama belonged on the screen, not in real life.

A slender young woman with a wholesome face whirled into the diner and flew to VJ’s side. Amused, he crossed his arms as they whispered furiously to each other while shooting him fascinated glances under their lashes. Benign gawking, especially by someone who intrigued him as much as VJ did, was sort of flattering. After a couple of minutes, the other woman flounced to the bar, her sidelong gaping at him so exaggerated she almost tripped over her sandals.

“Friend of yours?” he asked as VJ approached his table.

VJ was giving him a wide berth, something he normally appreciated, but not today and not with her. There’d been an easiness between them earlier, as if they’d been friends for a long time, before she got uptight about his connection to Kyla. Friends were hard to come by in Hollywood, especially for someone who cultivated a reputation for being driven and moody. He lost little sleep over it. Different story with VJ, who made the idea of being so disconnected unappealing.

“Yeah, practically since birth. That’s Pamela Sue. She’s only here to ogle you.”

He laughed. “I’m not used to such honesty. I like it. What does VJ stand for?” he asked and propped his chin on a palm, letting his gaze roam over her expressive face. Women were manipulative and scheming where he came from. This one was different.

“Victoria Jane. It’s too fancy for these parts, so folks mostly call me VJ.”

VJ fit her—it was short, sassy and unusual. “Most? But not all?”

“Perceptive, aren’t you? My mom didn’t. But she’s been gone now almost a year.”

Ouch. The pain flickering through her eyes drilled right through him, leaving a gaping hole. Before thinking it through, he reached out and gently enfolded her hand in his.

“I’m sorry,” he said. After the ill-fated exchange of harsh words with his father sixteen years ago, Kris had walked away from a guaranteed position at Demetrious Shipping, the Demetrious fortune and Greece entirely. His relationship with his mom had been one of the casualties, and phone calls weren’t the same. But he couldn’t imagine a world where even a call wasn’t possible. “That must’ve been tough. Must still be.”

“Are you trying to make me cry?” She swallowed hard.

Dishes clinked and clacked from the kitchen and the noise split the air.

“Pearl’s subtle way of telling me to get my butt to work.” VJ rolled wet, shiny eyes. “Honestly, she should pick up your check. This place hasn’t seen such a big crowd since Old Man Smith’s funeral.”

While he’d been distracted, locals had packed the place. Most of the tables were now full of nuclear families, worn-out men in crusty boots or acne-faced teenagers.

“So you’re saying I’m at least as popular as a dead man?” It shouldn’t have been funny, but the corners of his mouth twitched none the less.

Soberly, she pulled her hand from his and stood. Her natural friendliness had returned and then vanished. He missed it.

“Well, I have to work.” She eased away, her expression blank. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Demetrious. I wish you and Ms. Monroe all the happiness in the world with your upcoming marriage.”

He scowled. “Kyla and I aren’t engaged.”

Yet. It didn’t improve his mood to hear rumors of the impending engagement had already surfaced, courtesy of Kyla, no doubt.

Why was this still bothering him? He’d agreed to give Kyla a ring. The deal was done if he wanted to make Visions of Black. He entertained no romantic illusions about love or marriage. Marriage based on a business agreement had a better chance of succeeding than one based on anything else. Of course, he was never going to marry anyone, least of all Kyla, whom he hadn’t even seen in a couple of months, not since she’d called off their relationship in a fit of tears and theatrical moaning. At which point she’d likely jumped right back into bed with Guy Hansen.

“Oh. Well, then, have a nice life instead.” VJ smiled and bounced to the kitchen.

At least he’d been able to improve her mood.

Later that night, VJ grinned as she walked up the listing steps to the house, jumped the broken one and cracked the screen door silently.

Kris and Kyla Monroe weren’t engaged.

Oh, it made no difference in the grand scheme of things, but she couldn’t stop smiling regardless. He was compassionate, sinfully hot and a little more available than she’d assumed.

Was there anything wrong with him? If so, she didn’t want to know. For now, he was her fantasy, with no faults and no bad habits.

It was fun to imagine Kris returning for her someday, top down on the Ferrari and a handful of red roses. And it was slightly depressing since it would never happen in a million years. He was on his way to Dallas and that would be that.

She tiptoed into the hallway and froze when a board creaked. Dang it, she never missed that one.

“Girl, is that you?” Daddy’s slurred voice shot out from the living room.

She winced. Angry drunk tonight. What had happened this time to set him off?

Her stomach plummeted. The part. She’d forgotten all about the part for Gus’s truck, and it was still sitting in the cab of Daddy’s truck. Her head had been full of Kristian Demetrious, with no room for anything else.

She put some starch in her spine and walked into the living room. Her father slumped in the same armchair where he had taken residence earlier in the afternoon. His eyes were bloodshot, swollen.

“Lookee here.” Daddy took a swig of beer and backhanded his mouth with his knuckles. “Finally decided to prance your butt home, didja?”

He looked bad. They’d all dealt with Mama’s death in their own way, but Daddy wasn’t dealing with it at all, falling farther into a downward, drunken spiral every day.

“I’m sorry about the part, Daddy. I got to town late,” she hedged. “I had to go straight to work.”

“Gus needs his truck. You get over there and fix it now,” he commanded, then downed the rest of his beer and belched. He set the empty can on the closest table without looking.

It teetered on the edge, and then fell to the floor with a clank. Beer dribbled onto the hardwood floor, creating another mess to clean up.

“It’s late. Bobby Junior can fix it in the morning.” Along with everything else since he was running the garage in their father’s stead.

Guilt panged her breastbone. Bobby Junior had a wife and three kids he never saw. What else did she have to do? Lie in bed and dream about a Greek god who was speeding away toward a life that did not, and never would, include her?

Daddy bobbled the TV remote into his paw. “I told you to do it. Ungrateful hussy. Bring me another beer, would ya?”

Her head snapped up and anger swept the guilt aside. “Daddy, you’re drunk and you need to go to bed, so I’ll forgive you for calling me that.”

“Don’t you raise your voice to me, missy!” He weaved to his feet and shook the remote. “And don’t you pass judgment down your prissy little nose, either. I ain’t drunk. I’m hungry because you ran off and forgot about cooking me dinner. Your job is here.”

“Sorry, Daddy. I don’t mean to be disrespectful.” She bit her lip and pushed on. “But I’m moving to Dallas soon, like I’ve been telling you for months. You and the boys have to figure out how to do things for yourselves.”

Jenny Porter’s cousin was buying a condo and had offered to rent the extra bedroom to VJ, but it wasn’t built yet and wouldn’t be until September. Fall couldn’t get here fast enough.

Daddy shook his head. “The Good Lord put women on this earth to cook, clean and have a man’s babies. You can do that right here in Little Crooked Creek.”

“I’m not staying here to enable you to drink yourself into the grave.” Her dry eyes burned. “I’m tired. I’m sorry about Gus’s truck and for forgetting your dinner. But I’m done here.” She turned and took a step toward her room.

Daddy’s fingernails bit into her upper arm as he spun her and yanked until her face was inches from his. “Don’t you turn your back on me, girl.” Alcohol-laced breath gushed from his mouth and turned her stomach with its stench. “You’ll quit your job and forget about running off to live in that devil’s den.”

He emphasized each word with a shake that rattled her entire body. Tears sprang up as he squeezed the forming bruises. For the first time since her mother’s death, she was genuinely afraid of her father and what he might do. Mama had always been the referee. Her lone defender and supporter in a household of males. VJ didn’t have her mother’s patience or her saintly ability to overlook Daddy’s faults.

If she could escape to her room, she could grab some clothes and dash over to Pamela Sue’s house.

“Thought you were pretty smart hiding all that money under the bed in your unmentionables box,” he said.

It took her a second. “You were snooping in my room?”

She jerked her arm free as panic flitted up her back. Surely he hadn’t looked inside the tampon box. Her brothers wouldn’t have touched it with a ten-foot pole, and she’d been smugly certain it was the perfect hiding place.

“This is my house and so’s everything in it. Needed me a new truck. Tackle got it in El Paso today.” Her father smirked and nodded toward the rear of the house.

The room tilted as she looked out the back window. In the driveway of the detached garage sat a brand-new truck with paper plates.

“You stole my money? All of it?” Her lungs collapsed and breath whooshed out, strangling her.

“My house, so it’s my money.”

Her money was gone.

She could have opened an account at Sweetwater Bank where Aunt Mary worked after all. Then Daddy might have found out about the money but wouldn’t have been able to touch it. Hindsight.

What was she going to do? Most of the money had been Mama’s, slipped to VJ on the sly when her prognosis had turned bad. It would take at least a week to earn enough at Pearl’s to buy a bus ticket. Never mind eating or any other basic necessities. Like rent.

Numb to the bone, she blurted, “My money, so it’s my truck. Give me the keys.” She held out a palm and tried to remember what Daddy had been like before Mama died, but that man was long gone.

He guffawed. “The keys are hid good, and it’s got anti-theft, so don’t even think about hot-wiring it. Now that you see how things are gonna go, getcher butt in the kitchen and fix me something to eat.”

“No, Daddy. You’ve gone too far. Do it yourself.”

A blow knocked her to the side, almost off her feet. Tiny needles of pain swept the surface of her cheek. She’d never seen the cuff coming.

“I’m tired of your mouth, girl. While you’re in the kitchen, clean up a little, too, why don’t ya? The boys left dishes in the sink.” He fell into the recliner as if nothing had changed.

Her cheekbone began to throb, overshadowing the painful bruising on her arm by quadruple. She had to get away. Now was her chance.

She sprinted to her room, ignoring her father’s bellowing. Her body felt heavy, almost too heavy to move. Once inside her room, she threw her weight against the door. After two tries, she wedged a chair under the knob good enough to stay upright, but not good enough to hold off a drunken rage if her father had a mind to follow her.

Numb, she stumbled around the room throwing things into a bag. Lots of things, as many as it would hold, because she wasn’t coming back. She couldn’t spend a couple of nights at Pamela Sue’s house and wait until Daddy sobered up like usual.

She tore out of her waitress uniform, ripping a sleeve in the process, but it hardly mattered since she’d never wear it again. Her father had been right—she would quit her job, but not because he said so. Because she was leaving. Without glancing at them, she pulled on a T-shirt and jeans, blinking hard so the tears would stay inside.

Abandoning Mama’s collection of romance novels almost killed her, but five hundred paperbacks lined the bookshelf. Maybe someday she could come back for them or ask Bobby Junior to ship them to her, but they’d likely be thrown out before she had the money for something that expensive. She couldn’t leave behind Embrace the Rogue and slipped it into the overstuffed bag. It had been Mama’s favorite.

A crash reverberated from the other side of the door.

Quickly, she yanked the curtain aside and threw up the window. With the heel of her hand, she popped off the screen and flung a leg over the windowsill, careful not to look back at the sanctuary she’d called hers since the day she was born. Her courage was only as strong as the sting across her face and when it faded, she feared reason would return.

She had nowhere to go, no money and a broken heart.

VJ started walking toward Main and got about halfway to Pearl’s before the tears threatened again. Two deep, shuddery breaths, then another two, socked the tears away. She didn’t have the luxury of grief. Other folks made a career out of drama and hardship, but none of that nonsense paid the bills. Only firm resolve got things done.

Twenty-six dollars in tips lay folded in her pocket, a windfall on most days. The crowd had been thick, thanks to lightning-quick word of mouth about the fancy foreign car in Pearl’s parking lot.

Twenty-six dollars would barely cover a day’s worth of meals at the cheapest fast-food restaurant, if by some miracle she could hitch a ride to Van Horn anonymously. Everyone for fifty miles knew her and would tattle to Daddy before breakfast. He’d come after her for sure if that happened.

The school she’d attended for twelve years loomed ahead, ghosts of those years dancing in the weak moonlight illuminating the playground. The next building on the block was the garage, and the sight of it almost changed her mind. Lenny and Billy would only miss her at meal time, but Bobby Junior and Tackle depended on her to pitch in around the shop.

Then again, Tackle had bought the truck for Daddy. Surely he’d asked where the money had come from. Daddy could have lied, but her brother’s probable betrayal hollowed out her insides.

She passed MacIntyre’s Drugstore. No more hanging out there with Pamela Sue at the lunch counter.

The end of things would have come soon enough once the condo in Dallas was built, but that was later. This was now, and it was harder than she’d expected.

Mercifully, there were no buildings on Main past the drugstore for a quarter of a mile. She finally reached the one and only motel in Little Crooked Creek and rehearsed some lines designed to talk her way into a free room.

A flash of yellow drove everything out of her mind.

Moonlight glinted off the muy amarilla Ferrari parked under the lone streetlight. Her pulse hammered in her throat. Kris was still here. Not driving toward Dallas and Kyla, to whom he wasn’t engaged.

It was fate.

Maybe he’d give her a ride in exchange for directions. He’d defended her against her brothers. He would help her, she knew he would.

But then she’d have to explain what happened to her money and why the big hurry to get out of town. She ground her teeth. Kris didn’t need to be burdened with her soap opera. Neither did she want to lie.

What if she made it seem like she was helping him? What if something was mysteriously wrong with the car?

Oh, it won’t start? Let me look at it. Ah, here’s the problem. No, I couldn’t accept anything in return. Except maybe a ride to Dallas.

Stupid plan. It’s a Ferrari, dummy, not a Ford. What if the engine was different than the domestic ones she knew?

There was only one way to find out and what else did she have? Not money. Not choices. Here was a golden opportunity to escape Little Crooked Creek forever and start over in Dallas. Her future roommate would surely take her in a little early, allowing VJ to crash on her couch. Once she got on her feet, she’d pay Beverly back, with interest.

Holy cow, the trip to Dallas was like nine hours. Nine hours in the company of Kristian Demetrious. Five hundred and forty minutes. More, if she could stretch it out.

She peered into the interior of the car, careful not to touch the glass in case the alarm was supersonic. The dash was devoid of blinking red lights, which hopefully meant no alarm at all. She fished a metal nail file from her purse and frowned. Not nearly long enough to pop the lock from the outside. Maybe she could peel the convertible top back a little and stick the file in that way.

On a hunch, she tried the handle. The door swung open easily. Unlocked. Only the rich.

Quickly, she released the deck lid and beelined it to the rear of the car. At least she knew the engine was in the back instead of the front. But it was downright foreign, an engine for a space ship instead of for a car, but one mechanism was the same. She reached in and wiggled the ignition coil wire loose.

Now nothing would start this car without her help. She closed the deck lid with a quiet click and retrieved her bag. Now, where to wait for Kris?

Wrinkling her nose at the space next to the Dumpster, she settled onto the concrete by the ice machine and tried to relax enough to fall asleep. Not likely with the knowledge this was probably the first of many nights sleeping on the street.

This plan had to work. Had to. Heavy, humid air pressed down on her in the dark silence. Crickets chirped in the field beside the motel, but the music did nothing to take her mind off the panic rolling around in her stomach.

What if Kris wasn’t meant to be her knight in shining armor?

Three

Kris examined the engine of Kyla’s car. Nothing seemed out of place, but how would he know if it was? The Ferrari had started fine every time he’d driven it. Why had it picked now, and here, to flake out?

Penance, for the delay. That’s why. Kyla had undoubtedly cursed it, then texted him to bring it to her in Dallas, pretty please. He should have shipped the car instead of driving it. She wouldn’t have cared either way, but no. He’d driven to allow time to obsess over the inflexible Hollywood machine. Muttering slurs on Italian engineers, he yanked his phone out of his back pocket.

“Car problems, chief?” VJ’s honeyed drawl rang out from behind him.

He grinned, strangely elated, and twisted to greet her. Whatever he’d been about to say died in his throat.

With a succinct curse, he ran a thumb over the welt on her upper cheek. “What happened to your face?”

She flinched and turned away, but he hooked a finger under her chin and guided her face into the sunlight. The injury wasn’t bad enough to need medical attention but quick-burning rage flared up behind his rib cage nonetheless.

“Who did that to you?” he demanded. “One of your brothers?”

She better start naming names really fast before he tore this town apart, redneck by redneck, until someone else spilled. VJ was small, so small. How could anyone strike her with force hard enough to bruise?

“Nobody. I tripped.” She shifted her gaze to the ground and pulled her chin from his fingers. “It was dark.”

“Right.”

The maids rearranged the furniture again, my darling, his mother used to say. Regardless of the continent, the excuses were equally as ineffective, as if he was both blind and stupid. This time, he wasn’t a scared kid, hiding in his room, creating stories in his head where he controlled what the characters did and it all turned out happy in the end.

Fury curled his hands into fists. He’d never been able to help his mother, distancing himself further and further from a powerless situation. Distancing himself from the rage, the only defense he had against turning into his father.

His parents had been madly, passionately in love once upon a time and their relationship had degenerated into ugliness Kris refused to duplicate. So now he employed strict compensation mechanisms: avoiding confrontation, avoiding serious relationships and staying detached. Women got sick of it fast, which he accepted. Maybe even encouraged. Kyla had been no exception.

Now, it was too late to disengage and even he wasn’t good enough to pretend indifference. VJ needed his help. Like it or not, his role in this had a second act.

“Really,” she said, refusing to meet his eyes. “It was an accident. Can I help you with the car?”

“An accident.” He crossed his arms and stared down at her. “What did you trip over?”

“Uh, the couch.”

He nodded to the ugly blotch on her arm, which wrapped around her biceps in the shape of a hand, with half-moon cuts at the top of the purple fingers. “Did the couch have hands with fingernails?”

Her face crumpled, and he spit out a curse. Panicked, he enfolded her into his arms, determined to do something, anything to help.

Then he remembered VJ barely knew him. She’d smack him with her bag for being so familiar.

But she didn’t. Instead she snuggled into his chest, sobbing. Her head fit into the hollow of his breastbone as if it had been shaped for her, and VJ’s slight frame kick-started a fiercely possessive, protective instinct. He tightened his arms and inhaled the coconut scent of her warm cinnamon-colored hair.