Two-Step Page 6

  The sound of a car turning off St. John Street catches my attention, but I don’t take my eyes off the bum. Brakes sing and headlights paint the yard and our silhouettes in the gathering dusk.

  “That’s him,” Iris says.

  I tilt my head toward the street. “Go on, then.”

  But she doesn’t move.

  “Don’t leave without helping me out, lady,” the bum begs, his rheumy eyes turning down with a practiced slant. “You can see I’m in a bad w—”

  “Shut it,” I warn. “Go on, Iris.”

  She still doesn’t move.

  “Will you be alright?” The question is feather soft, and even though I’ve only seen glimpses of her in front of a camera, I know this girl can deliver a line. Her voice is just as pretty as she is.

  “We’re fine here. Just go.”

  She sighs, and then I hear her sandals slap down the steps, and for a moment she’s standing beside me.

  “Here,” she says, thrusting something between us. I look down. It’s a protein bar. She waves it at the bum. “Take that. You look hungry.”

  The bum frowns, but he snatches it from her.

  I glance at Iris to see her frowning, her mouth pinched in concern. I know there’s no shortage of beggars and deadbeats in L.A., but maybe her people keep her insulated from them because she’s looking at this guy—this filthy, festering junkie—like he’s an abandoned puppy.

  “Go on,” I nudge. “It’s okay.”

  She moves and for an instant, the guy tries to follow.

  “Nope.” I grip a handful of his shirt, and he must know not to fight.

  “But—” He shrugs, his face screwed up in frustration. “What’m I supposed to do with this?” He rattles the protein bar like it’s a piece trash. “How’s this gonna help me?”

  Iris flinches as she hurries toward the Uber, but, luckily, she doesn’t turn back.

  “Eat it,” I tell him. “And maybe get some help. There’s a clinic on Vermilion Street.”

  We both watch Iris climb into the rideshare, and the driver wastes no time pulling away.

  “Will she be back?” the bum asks, sounding hopeful.

  “No.” And with the word I give him a little shake. “And you won’t be either if you know what’s good for you.”

  He shrugs out of my grip with a sour look. “Nobody tells Flip what to do.”

  I square my shoulders. “Well, Flip, nobody comes back here after I send them away.”

  He huffs, takes a few steps backward, and then mutters something under his breath. I roll my eyes.

  He stands there for a minute, looking wronged and bitter, and then his head dips. “You wouldn’t give me a fiver to leave, would ya.”

  I shake my head. “Nope.”

  He looks down, sees the protein bar in his fist, and holds it up. “What about this? You hungry? I’ll give it to ya for a dollar.”

  I almost laugh, but it’s really too sad to laugh. “Get outta here, Flip.”

  He makes for his bike, and I head to my truck. Nonc is going to wonder what happened to us. Not to mention Iris’s entourage. But she’s probably already texted them. I picture her on the phone in the back of that Uber, bitching about me, no doubt.

  I start my truck with that image, searching for my own irritation, but I can’t find it. In its place is a surprising relief. Relief that she’s in the back of an Uber. Relief that I didn’t leave her when she told me to.

  Chapter Seven

  IRIS

  I press myself against the back seat of the Uber with a shudder. All I can do is pray that Beau Landry doesn’t say anything about what just happened to Ramon. And Moira can never hear about it.

  It’s Ramon’s job to keep me safe, to get me from place to place. He’d be upset if he knew. But if Moira found out that not only did he leave me to ride with a stranger but that a vagrant accosted me while I waited for an Uber, she’d freak the hell out. She’d insist I fire him.

  I never would, but I don’t want that battle. Not now. Not ever.

  Moira already disapproves of how close Ramon and I are. How he’s my friend—true and trusted—not just an employee. She says being friends with people who work for you is a fast track to getting screwed.

  I wonder how that applies to being related to people who work for you.

  I close my eyes and heave a sigh of relief. Thank God Beau Landry stuck around until my ride showed. I don’t think that guy would have hurt me—not really, but he might not have been above snatching my purse for whatever cash it held. And then I wouldn’t have been able to keep it from Moira because I’d have to replace my ID, my credit cards, my SAG card, and everything else. She’d demand an explanation.

  I trade this upsetting thought for another one. When I get to the hospital, Beau Landry will be there. And if he didn’t like me before, he probably hates me now. I really don’t want to face him again. If what Mr. Hebert said is true—that Beau would be my substitute dance teacher—I don’t know what I’ll do.

  Please, God, let Mr. Hebert be just fine.

  Maybe it’s not a broken elbow. Maybe it’s just a bruise or a sprain, and in a day or two, he’ll be fine. And we’ll be able to pick up right where we left off.

  Which was still on the very basics of Cajun dancing. Because I’m a total klutz. I have the coordination of a newborn giraffe. For the three seasons of Hexed, I was able to keep my ungainly ways from holding me back. Yeah, everyone knew I was accident prone and made jokes about how all they had to do to find the trip hazards on set was to let me loose for five minutes. But that was no big deal. I don’t have a problem laughing at myself.

  And while fight choreography was my very least favorite activity, it didn’t happen often. Mostly, I could get away with jump cuts and rely on my stunt double. Plus, with a fight scene, looking tough is more important than looking graceful. Even so, I’m lucky that Raven Blackwell isn’t usually called upon to fight. Most of the time, she just has to run and jump and fly on a broomstick, which really just involves me leaning forward awkwardly on a prop. Frankly, it’s easier than the running and jumping.

  But nothing is as bad as dancing. Yet Mr. Hebert was really helping me. I was at least more relaxed when he taught me. I can’t see being relaxed with Beau Landry. No way.

  In the thirty minutes I’ve known him, he’s been judgy, rude, and impatient—everything I hate in a teacher.

  This is going to be a disaster.

  I shut my eyes against the despair. But instead of imagining Beau’s scowl, I see his back. And it’s not my imagination. It’s a memory.

  I see the outline of his shoulders, the spread of his stance—and the way his butt excels at the art of wearing jeans—because he planted himself right in front of me when that junkie recognized me.

  He didn’t even let that guy put a toe on the porch steps, and I’m grateful.

  Even if he doesn’t much like me—and I’m not a big fan of his—I’m grateful. And maybe I can remember that if Mr. Hebert can’t teach me for a while. Besides, what choice do I have? I’ve got to learn these routines. At least the dance scene is one of the last to be filmed, thanks to Moira and her negotiating skills. So I have two months to get it together, and if Beau Landry is the one who’s going to get me there, I’ll have to make the best of it.

  The Uber driver pulls up to the emergency room entrance. I thank him and get out, texting Ramon to find out where to go. But my phone rings before I even step through the automatic doors.

  Moira.

  I slink to the side of the entrance and answer. I’d rather take this out here instead of in front of an audience.

  “Why did you hang up on me?” Her voice could shave glass.

  “I didn’t hang up on you. I told you I had to go.” I just didn’t tell her it was because a street person was hassling me.

  “What was so urgent that you couldn’t answer my questions?”

  “What was so urgent? Moira, we’re in the middle of a medical emergency.” I think I le
arned to deflect when I was about four. The skill has served me well over the years. “I’m standing outside the hospital right now. Can we talk about this later?”

  The line goes silent. Uh oh.

  “Where’s Ramon?”

  I have no idea where Ramon is. Or Sally. Or Mr. Hebert. Or even Beau Landry. But I can’t go with that. “He’s parking the car.” I learned to lie when I was about two. I don’t like to do it. I’d rather act. But desperate times and all that.

  Dropping me off somewhere and parking the car is something Moira would approve of Ramon doing. So, as far as she is concerned, that's where he is. Who knows? He might really be parking the car. I’m sure he had to park it at some point, I rationalize.

  “Where’s David?” At first, I don’t know who she means, but then I realize she’s talking about Mr. Hebert. I don’t get how she could refer to him by his first name. He’s like someone’s grandpa. The kind of gentleman who makes you realize why you should respect your elders.

  But Moira doesn’t respect her elders. She respects money, and I don’t think Mr. Hebert has too much of that.

  “Uh, I think he’s inside.”

  “You think?”

  Shit.

  “W-well,” I stammer, “in admitting, I mean. Not in the actual ER yet.” I think this is right. It sounds right. I mean, if you’re not, like, bleeding out or in cardiac arrest, they make you go through admitting, right?

  I’m taking a gamble that Moira doesn’t know for sure either.

  She sighs with such audible annoyance, a reflexive apology rises in my throat. “At least he has insurance,” she drones.

  “Oh?” That’s good. “How do you know?”

  She tsks. “Well, I wouldn’t work with someone who wasn’t insured, now would I? What do you take me for, an amateur?”

  “I—No, of course not.”

  “I mean, my goodness, what if he’d hurt you instead of the other way around? Then where would we be?”

  “Well—”

  “Of course, knowing you, I should probably stack a few policies for liability,” she says sourly. “I hope he’s as simple as he seems, or he could sue the pants off us.”

  “He’s not going to sue us, Moira,” I say, my voice dropping. I steel my courage. “But if he has insurance, I’d at least like to cover his co-pay.”

  “And let him think we’re made of money?” Her voice approaches screech levels. I wince. Screeching Moira is the stuff of nightmares. “Once he gets a whiff of that, he’ll sniff around for more.”

  I’m thankful she can’t see my massive eye roll. A gold-digger is the last thing Mr. Hebert is.

  “I think it’s the right thing to do,” I say. “It was my fault, after all.”

  She snorts. “Well, there’s no proof of that. Besides, he’s old, Maybe he just fell.” I can hear her smiling, dreaming up this new alternate reality. It makes me a little nauseated. Then the humor leaves her voice. “Wait. There really is no proof, right?”

  “Huh?”

  She tsks again, impatient. “I mean Ramon wasn’t filming your or anything, right? Or your little friend?”

  “You mean my best friend Sally Bristol, whom you’ve known for thirteen years?”

  “Don’t be cute, Iris,” she warns. “Did either of them film it?”

  Of course they weren’t filming it. They’re my best friends. My best friends also would not film me doing something equally humiliating like getting a colonoscopy or browsing through Tinder.

  I’m tempted to leave her twisting in the wind for a little while. Gee, I don’t know, Moira. I’ll ask them. But who knows what she’d do with that.

  “No, Moira, they weren’t filming anything.”

  “Well, thank God for that at least.”

  Her tone has me gritting my teeth. I breathe in. I breathe out. “Would it be so bad if they were? I mean, they’re my best friends. And even if they weren’t, they signed NDAs.”

  “P-lease, don’t be so naive. Do you know what they could sell a video like that for?” she asks, snidely. “Enough to buy new friends.”

  Even though I know Sally and Ramon would never do that, it stings that she’d even say it.

  “Moira, they wouldn’t hurt me like that.” I wish I could say that without sounding like I’m nine years old.

  She laughs. She actually laughs. “Honey, you’re old enough to know that everyone has a price.” She chuckles in a way that I can bet she’s shaking her head at me. “I’m sorry to have to break it to you, Iris, but there’s nothing special about you that would make people overcome human nature.”

  This gut punch lands right where I expect it, but it’s the next one I don’t see coming.

  “I mean, if there were, your father never would have left.”

  My knees almost give.

  In a daze, I reach out for the hard surface of the hospital wall and lean back against it. Memories of my dad pour in like a deluge through a collapsed roof. I’m staring at my sandals, but I’m seeing him. Grinning at me. Shrugging. Tucking his long, brown hair behind his ears. Stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The faded denim always hung loose on his hips. He would stoop when he walked. Like he was ducking his head. His posture would make his glasses slip down his nose.

  And that used to make Moira so mad.

  Stand up straight! she’d scold. What are you? Eleven? You want Iris to skulk around like that? Set a good example for God’s sake.

  I close my eyes. That grin. That shrug. That skinny frame. I can still see them.

  “Did you eat something tonight?” Moira’s question shatters the images.

  “Hmm?” I blink my eyes open, lost for a moment in this unfamiliar place.

  Hospital. I’m at a hospital.

  “Did. You. Eat?” Impatience firms each word.

  “Oh.” I remember the protein bar and the junkie. I clear my throat. “I brought a protein bar.”

  “Good,” she says. “Remember, nothing after seven-thirty.”

  I check my smart watch: 7:26. Oh, well. I guess I’m not eating until tomorrow.

  I’m hungry, but suddenly I’m also exhausted. So exhausted.

  “I’ll remember,” I mutter. “I’ll just check on Mr. Hebert and head home. It’ll be an early night.”

  “Good,” she says again, and this time she sounds pleased. Moira approves when I turn in early—unless there’s an A-list event for the evening. And then I’m up until all hours—drinking sparkling water with lemon, lime, or if I’m lucky, a strawberry. Because rules. No food after seven-thirty and, of course, no alcohol.

  “‘Night, then, Moira. I’ll see you on-set tomorrow.”

  “Text me when you get back to the house.”

  “I will.”

  The house. My rental. My oasis. My own. When I turned nineteen, I insisted that I needed my own place. I’d just nailed the role as Raven Blackwell, and I was making enough money to change my lifestyle. And I knew if I was going to stay sane while I balanced a hectic rehearsal and filming schedule, do cardio and strength training on the regular, and have anything resembling a life, I needed Moira and me to live under separate roofs.

  At first, she didn’t like the idea. And then I found us two separate condos in the same complex in Silver Lake. She did like the condo. Hers was a one-bedroom on the east side of the complex, mine a two—all the way over on the west side. And I sweetened the deal by putting her lease in her contract.

  And then I got Mica—my Shetland Sheepdog-Blue Heeler mix.

  Moira is allergic to dogs and cats. And, okay, yes, maybe I knew that before I got a Sheltie-mix, a breed that sheds plenty and isn’t recommended for people with allergies. But I love Mica with my heart and soul. And I’m thankful every day that he sheds loads.

  So when we’re in L.A. even though Moira and I were practically neighbors, she never comes over because the last thing she wants is itchy eyes, a red nose, and post-nasal drip.

  Good boy, Mica.

  Now that we’re here, M
oira has taken a suite at The Juliet, a little boutique hotel downtown. It’s close to our main studio and even a few of the outdoor locations. But Mica, Ramon, Sally, and I are renting the cutest three bedroom bungalow near downtown on Cherry Street. It even has a yard, which Mica loves. He especially worships the oak trees that are home to about a half-dozen squirrels he likes to chase.

  The house is just adorable. I’ve never lived in anything so homey. The thought of kicking off my sandals and sitting on the wide porch swing with Mica at my feet and Ramon and Sally on matching wicker rockers—close to each other, but not too close—helps my shoulders to descend from up around my ears.

  “And don’t you dare sign anything or agree to pay for anything before I have a chance to go over it, understand?” Her snarl decimates the moment of peace the image of the house gave me.

  I sigh. “I won’t.” All of the exhaustion, all of the guilt comes rushing back.

  Moira disconnects without another word, and I take my phone from my ear and press it to the spot between my eyebrows where I’m sure my skull is about to split open. I squeeze my eyes tight and hold back the scream that threatens to break free with it.

  “You okay?”

  I know the voice even before I open my eyes. And so when I do open them, it’s with a wince. Beau Landry stands before me wearing a look of suspicion.

  I can act. In fact, I’m good at it, and I really, really like it. I can slip into a character as easily as most people try on shoes.

  And, yes, I could play the part of a carefree twenty-two-year-old with nothing to do but handout smiles.

  I could do that. But I don’t feel up to it.

  I shrug. “It’s been a shit day.”

  Nothing about his expression changes except for the tiniest twitch of his left eyebrow. “Even before the disastrous dance lesson?”

  I blink. I don’t know what I expected him to say, but it isn’t this. But the rest of my day wasn’t bad. We filmed a spell-casting scene this morning, and that was a lot of fun. Even though I know it’s just from a fog machine, when the set floor ripples with mist, everything feels magical.