Time Out of Mind (Suncoast Society #43)(10)

He’d honestly expected a different answer than that despite what Clark had assured him. “Um…okay. Good.”

Doyle met his gaze again. “You’re probably not going to like this, but we’re dyeing your hair ASAP. Can’t hide that.”

Mevi dodged the statement. It’d been a couple of months since he’d been to a stylist, and his roots were long and obvious. “Where are we going?”

“Sarasota.”

“Florida?”

“I don’t know if there’s another one, but yes, Florida.”

“And we’re driving? Seriously?”

“I’m driving. Seriously.”

“Why aren’t we flying?”

Doyle smiled. “Because either you’re going to like or hate me at the end of this road trip. I don’t care which, to be honest, but you can’t escape me. Driving will keep the paparazzi off our tails. And I happen to be a sadist.”

He hit a button on the phone before tucking it away in the center console and closing the cover.

The opening bars of the overture “Work Song” from Les Mis streamed through the speakers.

Incredulous, Mevi stared at the guy. “Seriously?” Although Mevi would give the guy points for being ballsy.

Doyle grinned as he buckled his seat belt. “I warned you, I am a sadist. Besides, I love this show. And I’m a fan of irony.”





But mostly, Doyle was a sadist, even if the guy wouldn’t know he meant it literally, not metaphorically.

He was glad Mevi had immediately recognized the music. That meant they’d be listening to a lot of show tune albums over the next couple of days. Stuff they could either talk over, bond over, or ignore each other over. He had a lot more on his iPod, but hadn’t felt like digging that out of his suitcase tonight.

Working in his office or alone at home, he was usually doing something else he needed to focus on and couldn’t actually listen to the lyrics. In a car, driving, he loved music that told a story.

Hence show tunes.

As Doyle headed east, Mevi stared out the passenger window. “Where are we stopping?”

“Barstow.”

“That’s a shit-hole.”

“You’re not staying at the Ritz now,” Doyle told him. “We’re laying low. Hopefully there’s some place open between here and there I can get you some hair dye tonight. What color are you naturally?”

He didn’t answer at first.

Doyle waited him out even as Jean Valjean and Javert verbally duked it out through the speakers.

“Brown,” Mevi muttered, pulling the hood of his jacket back and taking off his hat.

In the dim light from the instrument cluster and passing street lamps outside, Doyle saw the guy’s roots providing a dramatic contrast to the rest of his hair.

Personally, Doyle thought the silver color made the guy look years older and it wasn’t even slightly flattering, but it was a style he’d had for years, his trademark.

“Might have to go darker than that to get the color out. Would probably be easier if we cut your hair first.” Mevi’s hair was usually somewhat longer than it currently was anyway. At least, it always was in the promo shots and videos he’d seen of the guy. Short, dark hair would make the guy nearly unrecognizable.

“Fine. Whatever.” Mevi turned to the window again.

Doyle mentally revised his plan. He’d get a hotel room for them first, then go out. If he couldn’t find any place open, he’d go out in the morning and they’d do it before they got on the road again. He wanted a good look at the guy in decent lighting before dyeing his hair.

This was something he’d had to do a couple of times with other clients to help disguise them when they’d needed to stay hidden for a few weeks instead of being on a shoot. With an actor, it didn’t matter as long as a wig was being used for shooting. Sometimes, with female clients, he did get them a wig to wear until they were someplace he didn’t have to worry about them being recognized.

Photogs were too good at spotting celebs with sunglasses, hats, and hoodies.

You had to physically change someone’s appearance. Hair was the easiest way to do that.

They rode without talking as Doyle started singing along with the soundtrack. He’d seen the musical a couple of times in traveling productions, never on Broadway. And he had the movie on DVD.





If anyone else had told this story to Mevi, he’d be laughing his ass off about now, and he damn well knew it.

But…this was his life.

Doyle didn’t have the best voice in the world, but he’d probably be a top contender at any average karaoke night. And bonus points for knowing all the words and apparently giving zero f*cks what Mevi thought of his singing chops.

Grudgingly, Mevi found himself tapping his hand against his thigh in time with the music and even softly singing along with some of the songs. As the Pacific coast drew farther away behind them, he wondered exactly where this road trip would lead.

Or where his recovery path would lead.

He knew he was f*cked if he didn’t pull it together. That pissed him off most of all, that somewhere along the way, he’d left his resolve, his will, in the dust.

Like he didn’t even give a shit.

That wasn’t him.