Saint Jude: Los Angeles Bad Boys (2 page)

I
f I watch
one more episode of Real Housewives of Atlanta I’m seriously going to … okay, I don’t know what I’m going to do, exactly. And I don’t want to be some melodramatic girl who’s tossing out ridiculous ultimatums, but the truth is I’m just bored out of my freaking mind.

It’s not a secret. I’ve been lying on this couch in my brother’s guesthouse for six months straight. Six months where I basically quit … everything.

Completely.

I didn’t apply to any film program. That was just a bullshit excuse to get out of Yuri’s clutches. I needed to get the eff out of Berkeley, and this seemed like the surest, quickest bet.

It was the right call. My mom moved to town a few months before I did, and my big brother Holden … well, what was he going to do? Not let me move into his empty, rent-free, gorgeous oceanfront guesthouse? I mean he’s a total douche, but he’s not that big of an asshole. He’s still my big brother.

The truth is, I’ve always been in Holden’s shadow. How could you not live there when your brother is a narcissistic, womanizing, demigod of a man?

And no, this is not some opening chapter about a girl who has some stepbrother fantasies—this is not romance novels circa 2015. I’m talking about the fact that my brother is basically the most sought-after bachelor in America.

At least, he was before he hooked up with Bexley—who, I might add, is really adorable and way too good for him, but I guess in some ways they are perfect for one another. The yin to his yang, the good to his bad. The sweet to his … salty?

But eww, that is getting way too personal.

I don’t even know why I’m thinking about them, but it’s a commercial break and I’m drinking warm Diet Coke, eating SmartPop, and wondering what the actual fuck is happening to my life.

The biggest issue here isn’t even that I need to
do
something. The biggest issue is that Holden is going to walk through the guesthouse doors in about one hour and stage an intervention.

How do I know this?

Mostly because yesterday he came here and said, “If I come into your room after I get off work tomorrow”—which, sidebar,
get off work
is code for hanging out with his personal trainer—“and you’re still in the same sweatpants as yesterday, and haven’t showered, I’m calling in backup.”

Backup
means my mom will come here and try to drag out what happened to cause me to go into this spiral of self-destruction.

Maybe I
am
trying to sabotage my life. I mean, my mom coming over here should be enough of a threat. Instead, I’m still shoveling popcorn down my throat, as if the fact the bag says
100 cal per 100 cups
makes it go anywhere besides my ass. Ignoring the fact that Diet Coke is basically the equivalent of guzzling GMOs. Ignoring the fact that coming face-to-face with my problems is the last thing I want to do.

I click off the TV and bury myself under the covers of my bed.

Anyone who was watching me at this exact moment would think
This girl is an entitled brat
. And they’d probably be right—except they don’t know my whole story.

My whole story equals an asshole of an ex-boyfriend who pretty much destroyed all of my confidence.

Which is fucking depressing, considering I’m a newly-minted twenty-two-year-old. The world is my horizon, or oysters in my hand, or whatever the hell it is people say; I could do anything.

Could
being the operative word here, though, isn’t it?
Could
changes everything.

Right now I
could
get out of bed, take a shower, be presentable, and not have my brother moaning about me going back to school or getting a job. He says he won’t let me live off his riches forever. Which, I mean, I get on some level. But the dude is a freaking millionaire.

This house alone, right? Six thousand square feet of heaven on the coast of California.

But even with this inspirational backdrop, I feel stuck. I gave my heart to a man who had no clue what to do with it, who ripped it to shreds. He broke me down and broke me apart.

Yeah, getting mixed up with Yuri was pretty much the dumbest thing I’ve ever done, but you can’t exactly take back the things in your past, can you?

If you could, I’d obviously change a few things. I’d never go out with a crime lord and become his pseudo-sex-slave. I’d never let him use me for nine months when I could have been going to college like a proper undergrad.

Or, at the very least, I’d be honest with my family about what was actually going on. But I didn’t, because Yuri did one thing really well. He made me feel vital. Useful. Necessary.

And that was enough to keep me under his thumb. But then I wanted to go visit my brother, and Yuri did not like that idea.

In fact, he forbade me from leaving him.

That was the tipping point for me. Because feeling wanted is important, but feeling trapped? Not so much.

Knowing I needed to leave Yuri for good, I made an excuse to my brother, and moved down here without telling Yuri. But once I got here, I couldn’t shake the disappointment. I’d let myself get caught up with a man who hurt me.

At some point I must fall asleep under the duvet cover, because the next thing I know Holden is here, in my bedroom. Thank God I’m actually dressed, and don’t have like, you know, a vibrator between my legs or something. That would be pretty much mortifying.

To clarify, the mortifying thing would not be that I was taking care of things—that’s pretty much a given these days, considering no one is around to give me a lady boner. The mortifying thing would have been my brother catching me taking care of said things.

Okay. Side-tangent, point being: Holden is here looking at me with a scowl on his face and probably thinking the worst.

Okay, not
probably
. Now he’s screaming.

So
definitely
thinking the worst.

“Are you shitting me right now, Cat?” Holden yells.

“You’re not my mom.”

“Yeah, but I can call Mom to come over here. Is that what you want?”

“I don’t know what I want. If I did, this would all be a hell of a lot easier.”

“Cat,” Holden says. “I love you. And not just because you’re my sister. I love that you’re smart and talented—”

“Oh, come on,” I say, tossing my blanket to the floor as I stand. With my hands on my hips, I prepare to lay into him. “I’m doing everything I can to just, you know, keep myself together.”

“
This
is what you call keeping it together?” Holden points around the room, incredulous.

“Okay, not exactly keeping it together—but, Holden, of course you don’t get it. You have life all figured out. You’ve
always
had life all figured out. You knew what you wanted to do, and went and got it. Me? I’ve never had a freaking clue about anything. So yeah, I’m eating SmartPop in yesterday’s pajamas and drinking lukewarm soda. So sue me. So kick me out. So send me to live with Mom. I get it; I’m a drag. But it’s like, you’re asking me to be someone I don’t know how to be.”

“Cat,” Holden says. “I’m not trying to make you be anything. I just want you to be
something
. There’s a difference. I’m not asking the world of you.”

I groan. “You know, now that you mention it, I’ll just snap my fingers and have a brand-new life dropped into my lap.” I literally snap my fingers for dramatic effect. “Because, you know, life is that easy.”

Holden’s phone rings. He looks at the number and then answers it, holding up a finger as if I don’t understand the concept of him needing a sec.

“Let me think…. Damn, no, actually Bexley has a photo shoot this afternoon, that’s probably why you couldn’t get a hold of her.” Holden frowns. “What do you need exactly?” He listens, and then nods, eyes on me. “No problem, bro. Catalina is here and she was just asking me how she could help.”

Holden pockets his phone, smirking the way only an older brother can.

“What?” I ask.

“You said you wanted something to”—Holden snaps his fingers dramatically—“magically appear?”

I cross my arms, waiting for him to finish.

“Jude needs a babysitter,” he says. “This afternoon. He has a meeting. I told him you were free.”

“Really?” I swallow, knowing my priorities really are fucked up. The first thing I think when he mentions Jude’s name is not that he needs help with his six-month old daughter.

My first thought is that Jude is
hot
, and every time I see him I can’t help but think about ways he could work me over.

“Thanks, sis,” Holden says, grinning, as if he’s won this round. “I’ll text you his address. He needs you in an hour.”

I smile tightly, because what else am I supposed to do? I may be a self-indulgent loser, but I’m not a complete bitch.

“And where’s Rachel?” I ask.

“Jude didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.”

“I guess I should take a shower,” I say, looking down at myself.

Holden just nods, waving me off. “That’s a good start,” he says, walking toward the door.

I roll my eyes, actually not hating the idea of helping Jude today. Because like I said, Jude is hot.

I head for the bathroom, wanting to clean myself up for Jude, my body warming to the idea as I slip off my shorts and panties, I take off my bra and look at myself in the full-length mirror. My hand grazes my pussy as I think about Jude’s tattooed arms, his dark hair, and his kissable mouth pressing against mine.

He and I can’t be a thing—he has a woman and a baby—but I can certainly get off in the shower pretending we could be. Turning on the shower and parting my legs, I let myself pretend the last year never happened. Instead, I give into something else happening right now.

Something that begins with an O.

R
achel’s been gone
for an entire week.

Does it make me a total asshole to feel like it’s been both forever and not nearly long enough?

I’m not sure what it says about me that the biggest issue I’m having at the moment isn’t about taking care of Etta. My biggest issue is my fucking pride. It’s like I don’t want anyone to know that my daughter’s mom ditched her. Ditched
us
.

I don’t want people to think that Etta isn’t worth staying for, because she is. But I know how people get, how people talk, how people think. A lot of it is bad—especially in a town like this, where word spreads fast.

Rachel’s called once. She left a voicemail letting me know that she was thinking about Etta, thinking about coming home, but that she knew she wouldn’t be for a while.

A
while
? A little vague, right? I mean, seriously you can’t do better than that for Etta?

This is exactly why I never should have been with Rachel in the first place.

But then I wouldn’t have Etta. It’s pretty much a clusterfuck anyway you look at it.

I have to go to this meeting today, no question about that. It’s a meeting that could determine whether or not I get financing for my next film—even though in my heart I know that even considering doing a film right now, with my life is so fucking up in the air, is a disaster waiting to happen. Still … I’ve got to go.

Especially on the heels of my last film,
Here in the Breeze
, which took Sundance by storm. Bexley is nominated for a fucking Oscar for her role in it.

I don’t want to lose this momentum. It’s what I’ve worked so hard for.

I can’t let Rachel destroyed what I’ve built.

So I called in back-up with as little detail as possible. I don’t have family in LA—hell, I don’t have family anywhere. Isn’t that why people end up in places like New York City or LA in the first place? People blowing in the motherfucking wind, not grounded, not stable. Just looking for something?

I’ve thought about all that existential shit a lot since Etta was born. Damn, all I’ve got to do is look at Etta, cradled in my arms, and think that maybe I already have everything I need. Maybe I have it right here. Maybe chasing these dreams with these Hollywood executives is just a fucking waste of time.

But it’s worth checking out, isn’t it? I’ve got to put food on the table and a roof over my daughter’s head.

I clearly have some issues I need to work out. Truckloads.

I never would have called Holden, but damn, I need help.

Bexley has an audition or whatever the fuck she’s doing today, and that’s good for her. Good for her and Holden; they have their own perfect little life carved out for them, and I couldn’t be happier for two people in the goddamn world.

Except for maybe Cassius and Evangeline.

My two closest friends and their girls are going to ride off into the motherfucking sunset together. Great. They found their unicorns.

I don’t need a unicorn.

I just need a babysitter.

Catalina’s coming, Holden tells me on the phone. Good. That’s something.

The doorbell rings. Etta’s in her swing—changed, fed, and smiling happily as I walk toward the front door.

It’s Catalina. Her hair is wet, and there’s no makeup on her face. Her eyes are piercingly blue, her skin perfectly tanned, and she’s wearing cut off shorts, flip-flops, and a tight tank top.

She looks like Malibu Barbie—without the fake tits. But damn, she has some perfect tits. I don’t think she’s wearing a bra. It’s as if she literally rolled out of bed, jumped in the shower, and showed up here.

Actually, come to think of it, that’s probably what happened. Everything Holden has told me about his sister over the past six months, leads me to believe that’s exactly what Catalina was doing before she came here today.

But damn, I know exactly what I would like to do with her now.

As if on cue, Etta starts crying.