Hottest Mess (S.I.N. #2)(64)

“Honestly, Dallas, I’m really not in the mood.” There’s a cab moving slowly down the street, and I flag it. “You take the car. Enjoy the drive. Hell, maybe Adele needs a lift.”

I almost regret saying the last when I see the hurt on his face. Then I remember that he hurt me first. I slam the cab door shut and tell the driver to take me to the Upper West Side.

On the way, my phone rings five times, each call from Dallas.

I send each one to voicemail. And then, for good measure, I delete the voicemails.

Jerk.

I mean, what the hell? He’s more than willing to tell me he’s slept with a zillion vapid women and yet he never thought to mention that he was f*cking my stepmother?

Granted, she wasn’t technically my stepmother, but that little fact didn’t lessen the hurt.

I’m still pissed when I get home and my phone rings again. I’m about to just turn off the damn phone altogether when I realize the call isn’t from Dallas but from the guy in LA who’s producing the movie.

“Joel, I’m here.”

“Janie, Janie, sweetheart, Tarpin’s over the moon. Loves the material. Loves you. Everyone at the studio’s excited about him. He’s ready to sign on.”

“Seriously? I was just talking about him and the movie tonight. That’s so incredible.”

“Just one little thing. He wants to meet you first.”

“Me?”

“Since the screenplay’s not done, he wants to chat a bit. Make sure he’s confident in the direction of the story.”

“And the book’s not enough for him?”

Joel chuckles. “Baby, this is Hollywood. Just meet us at The Ivy at ten tomorrow for breakfast and all will be good.”

I start to tell him that I’m in New York, but what the hell. It’s not like I really want to be here at the moment anyway. And if I set up the flight right now, I can nap on the plane and still have time to go to my LA house, shower, then change before the meeting.

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll see you at ten.”

I hang up and immediately call Brody. “Hey,” I say when he answers, “I have to go to LA tonight so I can meet an actor for a breakfast meeting.”

“Tonight? It’s already past ten. You’ll never get a flight.”

“One of the perks of my family name,” I remind him. “Nice, comfy private jet. Anyway, I just wanted you to know because I think I’m going to stay out there awhile and work on the screenplay and the new book.”

There is a very loud pause from his side of the phone line.

“You want to talk about it?”

I close my eyes and silently curse. The man really does know me too well. “You know, I really don’t.”

“Whatever he did, I’m betting he’s not quite the * you think he is.”

“Probably not,” I admit, “but right now it doesn’t feel that way.”

“Well, do me a favor, and don’t celebrate your birthday alone. Go out with your LA friends. Drink. Dance. Go to the beach. But don’t sit in your house and work. More important, don’t sit in your house and mope about Dallas.”

“I won’t,” I promise, but even as I say the words, I remember the concert. Dallas and I were already planning on flying to LA tomorrow for the Dominion Gate concert and my birthday celebration. Now, it looks like I’m going all on my own.

And you know what? That’s just fine by me.

At least, that’s what I tell myself. And as I toss a few things into a suitcase, I try to convince myself that I actually believe it.

I don’t have much to pack since I have a house out there already stocked with clothes and toiletries. And that’s a good thing since I really can’t focus and feel like I’m moving through sludge. On the drive to the airport, I try to concentrate on the meeting tomorrow. About questions Tarpin might ask and how I can answer both honestly and in a way that will really entice him to sign on to the project.

I try, but I don’t succeed. Instead, all that goes through my mind is Dallas.

No—actually, that’s not all that goes through my mind. What really goes through my mind is the thought of Dallas and Adele. Talking. Touching. Laughing. Fucking.

Over and over again like one of those goddamn Nickelodeon movies that just go round and round and round on some endless loop. All through the drive and all through the flight, and even when I try to sleep, they infiltrate my dreams, so jarring that I’m yanked back to wakefulness by the thought of the man I love f*cking my pseudo-stepmother.

Why?

And why the hell didn’t he tell me?

And how the f*ck long did it go on, and how long has it been over? Or is it over? Has he been with her since he and I got together?

Oh. Dear. God.

And now that the thought’s in my head, I can’t get it out, and all I can do is tell myself no. No. Dallas may have neglected to tell me that he and Adele romped between the sheets, but there is no way—no way in hell—that he would actually cheat on me with her.

Of that much, at least, I’m sure.

The brutal truth of that revelation calms me. It doesn’t make me happy—he still f*cked Adele, and what the hell is that about—but it calms me enough that I can sleep for the last hour of the flight. It’s not enough, and I’m groggy when we land, but at least I won’t be a total zombie at the meeting.