LIKE (Social Media #2) (6 page)

Well, since Mr. What’s-his-face can’t be bothered today, I will sort that bank stuff out tomorrow. And I still have forty minutes before I need to leave to meet Ms. Blazen, so first thing first.

How much coffee money do I have left?

I press my Starbucks app on my phone and walk over to the flowers as I wait for it to load. There’s a card, and I’m just pulling it out of the little pink envelope when my balance comes up.

I stare at it.

Then at the card in my hand.

You are cared for.

Then my balance. Four thousand, nine hundred and ninety-seven dollars, sixty-three cents.

What? How? I look back at the flowers and see Asher’s little V initial. What the fuck? Who the hell puts five thousand dollars on a Starbucks account?

And that stuff with the bank?

I pull up my banking app on my phone and log in. It takes a few seconds, which is not good, because the time between that and when it loads only gives my heart time to beat faster, so that when I actually see the balance in my savings, I have to grab a hold of the table to keep from falling over.

I have thirty thousand dollars in my savings account.

Chapter Five

#TheGiftThatKeepsOnGiving

M
Y
mind
wanders all day. Grace, Grace, Grace. That’s all I think about as I listen to my agent go on about upcoming projects, promotions, and charity functions.

I nod for everything.

“Yes, sure, Larry,” I tell him when he asks if I’ll attend the
IM2
premiere.

“You will?” he asks, surprised. He’s holding his phone, glancing down at it every few seconds even as he talks to me. “I mean, you’ve been making such a big deal about it these last few years.”

“Hell the fuck no! I’m messing with you. I can’t stand the paparazzi and the fanfare. I’m sick of it. I’ve lived in the public eye for twenty-seven years, and that’s not including the first five years where the public eye was only Adam. It’s tiring. I’m at the point where this really is a job, ya know? I’d like to go home at the end of the day and just… be with people in a
normal
way.”

Larry looks at me suspiciously, one brow hitched up on his forehead, one eye squinting. “You’re seeing someone?”

“What? No, hell no. I’m not seeing anyone.”

“You have a girl at your place, don’t you? I’m coming over tonight to check. Are you shacking up?”

“No, Larry. Look, all I mean is that I need space. I need… time
off
maybe.”

“Time off? Are you kidding me? V, your career is at its height. You’re in your prime. You have roles coming out your ass.
IM2
is the beginning. All those stupid roles are behind you and now is the time to take on projects that are meaningful and fulfilling. You can’t quit now.”

“I’m not talking about quitting, I’m just talking about doing… something else. Like relaxing. Enjoying what I have for a year.”

“A year? No, you can’t—” His phone buzzes in his palm and that distracts him away from my conversation just long enough for me to wave a hand at the waitress to get the check. “I have to take this, do you mind?”

“You go, I’ll pay. Talk to you next week.”

He pats me on the back as he answers his call and then walks out.

We’ve had this weekly lunch every Tuesday for ten years. Larry is my best friend as well as my agent and I know he’s just looking out for my career, but the truth is I don’t want to think about my job, or the premiere of
IM2
, or the appearances I’ll have to do to promote it, or any of the other endless things that come with being a movie star in Hollywood.

I need to get the hell out of Hollywood, actually. I think that might be my problem.

“Here you are, Mr. Asher,” the waitress says as she hands me the check. I pull out my card and hand it over to her and go back to my thoughts, looking out the window onto Santa Monica Boulevard.
Grace
. That’s all I want to think about today. Tweeting with Grace tonight. And who would’ve thought that this simple thing could make my day?

I wonder if she got my flowers, or realized I’ve padded her bank account with money? Or the Starbucks card?

I’m still smiling at all of that when my phone buzzes and speak of the angel, she’s calling me right now to thank me! I press accept. “Calling me at work, tsk tsk tsk,” I say playfully.

“Asher,” she seethes and I actually sit back in my chair at her tone. “Who the fuck do you think you are going into my private accounts? Just who the fuck?”

“Whoa, Grace, not the thank you I was expecting.”

“Thank you? Are you crazy? I’m writing you a check and giving all that money back. How dare you! I will not be bought. I will not have you giving me money with the presumption that I owe you something, understand? I will write you—”

The waitress discreetly slips the bill back on the table and I hold my hand over the phone and mouth
Thank you
,
bring the car
, at her.

“—and you will stop with this. Do you understand?”

“Grace, listen carefully, because you’re missing out on the experience of what just happened to you. OK?”

“How dare you discount my feelings on this—”

“Listen,” I growl at her. “You had your say, now I will have mine.” She huffs out some air and I can almost imagine the eye roll she’s giving me in Denver and that just makes her all the more desirable. But she needs a firm hand right now, because she’s being emotional and reactionary. “It’s a gift. I’d like to help you out. In your pursuits or dreams. Whatever. Use that money any way you want. There are no expectations tied to it at all. If you write me a check I won’t cash it, so don’t waste the time and effort it will take for all your self-righteous indignation. It’s pointless.”

“I don’t want your gift. And I’ve changed my mind. I’m not tweeting with you tonight.”

“You are.”

“I’m not. And who the hell puts five thousand dollars on a Starbucks card? It’s ridiculous!”

“What’s ridiculous about it? It’s a payment card, now you have money to pay.”

“It’s five years’ worth of coffee, Vaughn. Starbucks could go bankrupt in five years. The world could end in five years. You have no idea what will happen in five years. So it’s a waste of money.”

“You’re right, anything can happen in five years. But…” I hesitate, take a deep breath, and then say it. “But every day for the next five years you will walk into Starbucks knowing I’m still caring for you. Every day for the next five years you will think of me at least once. So it’s not a waste of money, it’s a gift that keeps on giving. For both of us. Because once a day I will know for certain that you are thinking of me. And once a day you will know for certain that I’m thinking of you. How is any of that ridiculous?”

Total silence on the other end of the line.

“Grace?”

“I don’t even know what to think about that.”

I shake my head in confusion as well. “What’s to think about? I don’t get it.”

“It’s too much. And the money, Vaughn, please. It’s sending me all kinds of mixed messages. I don’t understand what’s happening. All of this is just too much!”

“Too much how? Your constant objections to everything I say and do are sending
me
mixed messages. Jesus, do you even like me? From the way you react to everything I do, I’m going to have to say no. The money is not complicated, Grace. You must worry about bills, you don’t make very much. So why is it too much to take that worry away?”

“You’re trying to buy me.”

“Buy you for what? That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It does to a poor person.” And then she hangs up.

And that is bullshit. I redial and get ringing. One, two, three, four, voicemail. “Grace, call me back.”

I take my credit card and stuff it in my wallet as I exit the cafe, sliding my sunglasses down over my eyes, as I head into the paparazzi. They bombard me with questions, cameras clicking, people touching me. The crowds gather, but the valet is there, and then the security from the restaurant comes to help—this is the cafe to the stars, they know how to deal—and I slip into the Range Rover, check traffic, and pull out onto Santa Monica, heading west.

I’d like to forget about her.

That’s a lie. I’d like to fly to Denver right now and fuck that girl until she relents and lets me boss her around.

I chuckle a little because she hates the bossing. I get it. Lots of girls hate it. But I’m half joking about it with Grace. I can take no for an answer, but not all the fucking time. She wants to say no to me just to say no. And while I like to spar with her, it bugs me that she’s so combative. Can’t she see I’m playing? I’m not sure if she’s pretending to be offended by the money, or if she really is.

Isn’t that why she works? Isn’t that why everyone works? To make money and pay bills, and do new things, or take care of kids?

I’m not out to offend her. I just wanted to help her

I dial her phone again, and again, it goes to voicemail. “Why can’t you just say thank you? Why can’t you just feel good about the money? Why can’t you just enjoy it?” I hang up and wait to see if she calls me back.

I don’t want to squash her independent nature and I like her feistiness. I wonder how feisty she can be in bed when she’s not getting fucked publicly. I’d like to find that out and I’d like to find that out right now.

But I put on my blinker and turn right at Laurel Canyon to head up into the hills. I’ve got meetings and she’s got a job. I try and remember how long it’s been since I was dating a woman with an actual job. Someone who was not paid to hang out and wait for me to show up.

Wait, did I just refer to this as dating?

We’re not dating. I shake my head and laugh. I don’t date, and not only that, long-distance relationships never work. And I’d never date a girl in Denver, for fuck’s sake. Denver. No. Colorado is a place you go on vacation. You ski there, you don’t date girls there. You might fuck some girls there, and I do plan on fucking Miss Kinsella there. But that’s not dating. I don’t know what this is, a friendship maybe. But it’s not dating.

I check my phone to see if I’ve missed any messages, but no. She’s not calling me back. That’s OK. I will leave her alone so she can work today, but if that woman thinks I’m going to walk away from our sex tweeting tonight, she’s mistaken.

Ten minutes later I pull up to the gates of my modern mid-century home and the security guards let me through with a smile and a wave. I have a tuxedo fitting later this afternoon, but the tailor comes to the house, so I plan on spending my day at the pool thinking up ways to make Miss Kinsella blush and wiggle with one hundred and forty characters.

Chapter Six

#SomeAssholesAreBrilliant

I
THROW
my purse down on the table near the front door, kick off my heels, and flop down on my couch. Exhausted.

Walking to work this morning was fun and exciting, but the reality is that I need my car during the day to meet people. So all that musing over living and working local was just bullshit. I can’t ride the bus to meet clients. It’s stupid. Just stupid. It took me forever to get over to Park Hill today, and I was totally late because I had forgotten that I didn’t drive. And instead of going home and picking up my car, I insisted that I try to get around without one.