No Interest in Love (13 page)

“I was being serious.”

Her back moves a little with silent laughter, and she shakes her head, staring straight out the window while I bundle up the T-shirt and pull it till her bra strap is hidden. Either I'm so sick that I'm finding her incredibly attractive right now…or not sick enough.

“Thanks,” she says, and I flop back against the seat and shut my eyes. Think healthy thoughts.

“So what happened at that truck stop?” I ask.

“That's really not going to help your stomach.”

“Will you talk about something? Distract me?” The train hits another mile-high speed bump and I internally groan. I feel Shay moving around, hitting my legs, which isn't helping things, but I don't dare open my mouth right now. She sighs and I hear paper.

“I'll read. Try to memorize it.” Then she starts reciting the lines from the script. Go figure…Her method of distraction is work.

1:54
A.M.

I shoot to my feet, grabbing at the shade on the train window. My stomach turns over and over while I curse at the damn thing for not budging.

The train was supposed to be a brilliant idea. We're well on our way to the next stop on this road trip from hell. I'll miss the one-on-one dinner with Carletta, but I'll be there for the screen test. The rush and pressure were finally alleviated a little bit for the both of us.

Then the train lurches, and my stomach follows. A sick groan rumbles up my throat and out my lips. I settle my forehead on the window, my arms still straight up holding on to the damn shade, which won't move an inch.

“Sit down before you ruin the upholstery.” Shay tugs on the back of my shirt, and with very little effort she has me back in my seat and shoves my head between my legs.

“I don't bend anymore,” I grumble at her when she keeps pushing on my neck.

“Take deep breaths. I'll get you a barf bag.”

“I just need the damn shade closed.” Even though it's dark outside, the lights zipping past make it look like the Flash is running circles around us. I can't take much more of it.

She rolls her eyes with a light smile. I inhale deeply, and a tidal wave of stomach acid shoots up to the back of my throat. If I exhale, a pound of sunflower seeds will come out with it.

I swallow hard. Count to twenty. Wipe the sweat from my hairline. Wring my hands together and pull at the back of my head. Shay bumps into my shoulder briefly, and I chance a glance at her by the window, where the blur of the midnight world has turned me into a kid on the teacups at Disneyland who's had a few too many turkey legs.

Her ass is in my face.

I know there has to be a reason for her ass to be in my face, but I think I've lost the ability to think straight.

It's a great ass.

Gorgeous
ass.

And she'd kick
my
ass if she knew how much I want to grab that ass. How does she make it so damn good-looking with mud splatters all over the back pockets? With two torn belt loops? How in the hell have I not noticed this glorious ass in the seven years I've known Shay? It's been attached to her the whole time.

“There,” she says, and it somewhat rocks me out of the motion-sickness-slash-ass-hypnosis I'm stuck in. “Shades are down. Do you still need a place to vomit, sir?” she says in a horrible English accent.

I rip my eyes away with a slight shake of my head as she hops down from the two seats she was standing on. She ties the window shade to the bottom hook and slumps back into her seat. She settles her pinkie nail between her teeth and starts chewing, and my dizzy head swims in and out with the rocking of the train.

“You always do that,” I mumble, pinching my eyes shut. Damn, I'm gonna lie down.

“Take care of you? I know. You should pay me more.”

“Bite your nail. You were doing it when we met at the Smith.”

“The Smith? I haven't been there since—”

“Since you signed me. Yeah.”

I press a hand against my head. Still not feeling great, but at least I'm past the point of puke.

“It's habit, I guess,” she says. “Whenever I'm on a time restraint.”

The corner of my mouth twitches. That nail should be nonexistent if that's the case. Shay always seems like she's rushing to do
something
.

“I wouldn't have been biting it that day if you were on time,” she says with her well-rehearsed bossy tone.

“I
was
on time! I was there before you.”

“Yes, but you didn't tell me you'd changed your name.”

“Shoot.” I laugh under my breath, wanting to shake my head but keeping it still until I'm dizzy-free. I knew she'd find a way to blame me.

I wasn't late for that meeting though. I actually showed up a half hour early. Shay's agency had contacted me and set up a meeting with Julie—who had just called me saying that she was sending her intern because she'd gotten held up. The intern was going to start taking on clients, but Julie assured me she'd be supervised and blah blah…stuff I didn't hear after “We'd like to work with you.” Anyway, Julie had seen me in a play—at some modest playhouse that did mostly satirical stuff—and something I did had impressed her. (Probably the nude scene.) I hadn't booked anything since
The Walking Stiff
, and I sort of was handed that job, since my best friend cast it. So the fact that any agency wanted to meet with me was pretty big.

I sat at the bar and scoped out the place, trying to keep my legs from bouncing or my hand from rubbing the back of my neck raw. When Shay walked in, I smirked and held back my laughter. I hadn't seen her in over a year, since the bathroom scene, and just when I needed to be professional, she plopped her rear right next to mine, not even looking up from her tablet.

“I'll take an appletini,” she told the bartender. I remember her wearing a deep red suit jacket that matched the color of her lips. She kept pulling at it as if she wasn't sure if it was sitting right on her chest.

After setting her tablet on the bar, she flicked her eyes to mine and smiled politely. I smirked back, bringing my glass to my lips, and watched the recognition dawn on her face.

“Oh, balls.”

“Nice to see you too.”

Her eyes rolled, and she picked her tablet up and swiveled in her seat. “Sorry, can't catch up. I'm meeting someone.”

“Really? I better give you some space, then, so he doesn't see me and get intimidated.”

“Please. He'd kick your tiny ass.” She snorted, turning toward me. Her legs were crossed, one hand on the back of the bar chair and the other on the countertop. She tapped her nail against the napkin under her drink, and I smirked at her stance. Shay always said the opposite of what her body language was saying. At least with me. It was fun.

So I had a little fun with her.

I shrugged my blazer off my shoulders, our eyes trained on each other. She held back a smile, shaking her head like she knew I was trying to show off the last year at the gym. (I was.) And our eyes kept on each other till she blinked.

“He's perfect,” she said, gaze drifting to the front door. “He's tall. Muscular. A gentleman.”

“Yeah, but is he funny?”

“Hilarious. I can't wait to get my hands on him.” She said it like it was an insult, with her lips pressed and her head tilted. I liked it. I'd daresay that it was adorable.

She sipped on her drink and looked back at the door. After setting her glass down, she tucked her pinkie nail between her teeth.

“First time meeting him or something?”

“No,” she lied. I could tell by the way she spit out her answer.

“Does he work with you at…” I stopped and gave her outfit a once-over again. She might as well have been holding a sign that said
Go Away
to any oncoming hookup invitations. “…the real estate office?” I took a guess. Her cheeks went as red as the uncomfortable-looking blazer she wore.

“Entertainment business, actually.”

Her answer niggled in the back of my mind. I checked the time, and my own meeting wasn't for another ten minutes. So I relaxed a bit, even though Shay's the kind of person who would show up early for everything.

“So what's his name?” I might have flexed my jaw muscles more than usual when I saw her watching me drink.

“Why do you care?”

“You said entertainment biz. Is he famous like you?”

Her face fell, making my gut wrench with something I've come to know as massive and unjustified guilt. It was the last time I referenced her meme fame.

“He's an actor. You've probably seen him take parts you want all over town.”

“Ouch,” I said with a smile, knowing hands down right then that she was there to see me. And damn, it sucked because I thought this agency was my “in,” but the fact that Shay was my “in”…well, it wasn't going to happen.

So I had more fun with her.

“I'll bet your wound-up ass that I've booked more jobs than this ‘actor.' ” Yeah, I put the quotes up with my fingers like a thirteen-year-old girl. I saw her rebuttal on the tip of her tongue, and I sat back and let her release it.

“Really? Do you have an agency headhunting you?”

“Oh, so this is a business meeting?”

“Yes. And I need to look professional. You are not helping.”

“Hey, you sat down next to me.”

She tilted her head again, her dangle earring brushing the overlarge shoulder of the blazer. “You are correct.” She went to stand. “As always, nice bumping into you,” she said with her sarcastic grin. Her heel got caught on the bottom of her pantsuit, which was far too large for her, and she caught herself using the back of my chair.

I laughed and held my hand out for her to shake, stopping her fumbly exit.

“Jason Sterne.”

She went white. Then red.

“No…”

“Yeah. Changed my name for the stage.”

She slumped back into her seat, pushing away her bright green martini. “Double shot of tequila,” she told the bartender.

“I would've thought the intern coming to sign me would've actually seen me act,” I said, rolling my empty glass.

“I trust Julie's judgment. She thinks you have
real potential,
” she said, widening her eyes at her emphasized words. She downed the first shot right after that.

“Well, do we want to waste our time here?” I got up to leave, not only the disappointment of the representation being a complete bust forcing my ass off the stool but also the fact that I was facing a dilemma. Shay was adorable that day, shooting back tequila and wearing a ridiculously unflattering—yet flattering—outfit, and her feisty personality was something I found amusing.

Shay leaned down and pulled a manila folder from her briefcase. She stuck it out to me and said, “I know you probably don't want to work with me, but I'm still offering. Despite our run-ins, you're a good actor.”

I raised an eyebrow and took the contract from her slowly. “Based off Julie's recommendation?”

She stood up, downed her second shot, then straightened her jacket. “Based off my own opinion. I didn't know I was meeting up with
you
. But I've seen you perform. And I think—”

“Wait, wait, wait…” I said, holding my hand out for her to stop. “You've seen me perform, and you didn't recognize me?”

“Not as Jason Sterne.” Her mouth pulled up in arrogance. “Just as my nemesis.”

I cocked a brow and leaned closer. “Aren't you paid to recognize kick-ass talent?” I gestured to myself. “And stage presence?”

Her mouth opened and closed a few times. I saw the moment she decided to jump back into professional mode. Her face lost expression and her gaze leveled with mine. “I know exactly what auditions to get for you. If you want to give me a shot.” She tapped the folder. “My contact information is all in there.” Her heel caught on the bottom of her pants again as she made her way to the exit. I grinned at her, sort of in shock at the contract sitting in my hand.

“Oh, hey…” she turned around and walked back, shaking her head at the floor. “In case I don't see you again, even though we keep running into each other, thanks for getting me home…you know, last time.”

I'm not sure if she said it as a business tactic. But if she did, it didn't matter. I let her get to the door before I chased after her.

Shay's knee bumps into mine, and I blink my eyes open to the present.

“Why
did
you change it?” she asks.

“Huh?”

“Your name.”

Oh. “It's stupid.”

“I assumed that.”

“Well, I love you too.”

She kicks her feet up, resting them on the edge of my seat. “So…?”

“I like…
s
's.”

“The letter.”

“Yeah. I can write them better than
c
's.”

She nods, and I'm glad I don't have to elaborate. She knows my handwriting is shit. She knows I had to get extra help when I was in grade school, and I refuse to get help now that I'm an adult. She knows I've always been a little self-conscious and
extremely
grateful for the digital age, when you can type pretty much anything.

She knows, and for the first time I realize how huge that is. I can let a girl see me in the buff, do things with her and to her in any place imaginable, and while it feels great and it's part of the Stinson dream, it's not intimate at all. It's nothing compared to being fully nude mentally. Maybe a little bit emotionally. And to be that way and have someone not hold it against you. Even understand it. Even more bizarre is that person is Miss Unlikely.

When I decided to use a stage name, I wanted something that would look good when I signed it. So I practiced “Jace Carver,” but even though that's been my name my whole life, the
c
's ended up backward six times out of ten. I'd always been better at
s
's, especially cursive
s
's. So I fixed it. I get it right nine times out of ten now.

“I should just get a stamp made,” I say, trying to grin, but I swear the train runs over a mountain troll, shaking the entire room. I clutch at my stomach and start silently praying the train tucks in its wheels and takes off in flight, like in
Back to the Future Part III
.

“I've never seen anyone's skin that color before.” Shay gives me a once-over, then stands. Her ass is in my face again, but I'm too sick to even ogle it. “I know you don't want to, but I need you to get up.”

“Why?”

“I'm lowering the bed.”

I shove my butt from the seat, reach out and grab the unsteady wall, and then start praying.

Doc and Marty, you have a time machine. Get me the hell off this damn train.