Hollywood Dirt (Hollywood Dirt, #1)(102)
Before Cole, I had never been half of a whole, a pair of two joined so closely that it was hard to see where one personality ended and the other began. With Scott, I was always just there, occasionally stuck to his side, trying to chime into his conversations, waiting for the wedding that would put everything in its proper place. Now, I am half of us, Cole and I so in tune, so connected, that I don’t know how I ever functioned alone.
America has also merged us, our two names too cumbersome so we are simply Sole. They call us Solemates, and I roll my eyes whenever it is said but secretly, I love it.
They say that love is finding your soul’s match in another. I found my match. I found him, let him wrestle me to the ground, and then turned around and made him mine. I’m so glad that I didn’t scare him off, I’m so glad that he didn’t stop chasing. I’m so glad that Bobbie Jo screwed Scott and I found out about it. I’m so glad that Hollywood and dirt roads met in the uniqueness of Quincy. And I’m so glad that I was there, in that faded one-piece, when that damaged, beautiful man landed in our town.
EPILOGUE
Cole looked over at her, her long legs stretched into the floorboard of his Maserati, her short red shorts ones that he couldn’t wait to rip off. Before them, in all of its grandeur, Walmart, the parking lot full, busy Californians rushing forward with personalized shopping bags, cell phones to their ears, importance thick in the smog of the city.
“You ready for this?” Cole asked, a grin on his face.
She reached up, pulling with both hands on the edges of her brown paper bag, her hands adjusting until her eyes were on his, gleaming out from a face with a teardrop tattoo, a blood-red pout, and a nose ring. “Do you even have to ask?”
Cole laughed, tugging down on his own bag, Summer working on it all morning, his dramatic mustache one that twisted and curled, bushy eyebrows on top that would cause his stylist to fall over dead.
“Can someone please, for the love of God, remind me again why we are doing this?” they turned at the muffled voice, twin faces staring at them from the backseat. There had been long deliberation last night, their brains fueled by Summer’s fruit pizza and margaritas, over Ben and Justin’s bag people identities. Cole turned to the shorter head of the two, Justin’s Elvis face slumping back in his seat while Ben, who had wanted, for once in his flamboyant life, to be a girl, clapped his hands excitedly. He was supposed to be Marilyn Monroe, had spent over four hours on a brown paper masterpiece that would have a life of less than twenty minutes.
“We’re doing this,” Summer said patiently, “because Cocky needs a tether ball and we need the supplies to build it.”
“They are going to think we are robbing the place and will shoot us,” Ben said, his hands excitedly clapping. Cole stared at him and wondered why, of all things, that would be said in a gleeful tone. But Marilyn Monroe did have a point. Which is why, unbeknownst to Ben and Summer, Justin had already called the store. Spoken to a manager. Used Cole’s name and black AMEX and celebrity status to convince the man to let them shop in ridiculous disguise. Inside the Walmart were already ten of his security, in plainclothes, ready to keep any crazies at bay. Still, there was no doubt that this field trip would probably end within five minutes of beginning.
“This is California,” Summer said, in a tone that put Cole’s fine state somewhere on the level of a kiddie park. “No guns, remember? You all love running around unprotected. Plus, no one’s going to shoot a pregnant woman, so push me in front if you feel scared. Everyone in the backseat, stop being babies and get out of the car.”
They opened the doors and stepped out of the car, and if he thought he loved her before, that was nothing compared to this.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Quincy is a real town and its seventy-six Coca-Cola millionaires exist. It is located in north Florida (not Georgia), but besides that small detail, I tried to stay true to its roots. A local banker by the name of Pat Munroe convinced over seventy Quincy residents to invest in original Coca-Cola shares, even writing loans for their purchase. Those original shares were as low as nineteen dollars and are each now valued at over ten million dollars. What I said about Coke loyalty is true. Order a Pepsi in Quincy and you may get shown the door.
My chicken’s name was Knobby. Knobby Knees but that was a bit of a mouthful so we called him Knobby. He was a horrible crower, never mastered that art, but he was fluffy and white and came inside our home on frequent occasions, despite what my mother believes to the contrary. My hometown was very similar to Quincy, only we didn’t have millionaires, we only had good people who looked out for each other and would give you the shirt off of their back. I walked down memory lane a lot when writing this book, and it was one of my favorite things about writing it. Honestly, I don’t know if I’ve ever had as much fun writing a book as I did with this one. I fell in love with the town, and the story and with Summer and Cole. I hope you did too.
If you did enjoy this book, there are a number of ways that you can support it:
First, please call or email a friend and tell them about this book. If you really want them to read it, gift it to them. If you prefer digital friends, please use the ‘Recommend’ feature of Goodreads here to spread the word, or click here for pre-made, non-dirty Facebook posts.
Second, please ‘like’ the Hollywood Dirt Facebook page. When you post statuses, be sure to click the smiley face button at the bottom of your post entry and select Reading, then type in Hollywood Dirt as the book. That will help your friends easily find the purchase links and information on the book.