Changing Scenes (Changing Teams #2) (19 page)

“We look like we’re remaking our favorite fifties sitcom,” Britt said after we’d changed. Sam had thought to bring Britt’s hot rollers and other styling aids, and between the four of us we teased and curled Britt’s hair into an elaborate and slightly ridiculous bouffant. My hair wasn’t as cooperative, so I ended up with a French twist and some pin curls around my face. All in all, we ended up looking pretty good.

“We sure do,” I said as I selected a vinyl red lipstick from my makeup case. Since this session was all about me, I was in the bright teal while Britt wore the more subdued peach dress. Of course, that hair of hers was likely to steal the show.

“Ladies,” Sam said, “that includes you, Michael. Let’s start.”

Sam indicated where Britt and I should take our positions. I was on the left of the basket, platters of food spread before me. Britt knelt diagonal and a bit behind me, balancing the pitcher of pseudo-iced tea and a few glasses on a tray.

“Now, my sugars,” Michael began, as he popped a sprig of mint into the iced tea, “you both know you’re gorgeous. Just listen to Sam my man, and we’ll have people fighting to book the both of you.”

“You can have my bookings,” Britt offered, and I smiled.

“Thanks,” I said. I lifted a piece of cherry pie, and looked at Sam. “What do you want me to do?”

***

Three hours later, we had us some of the finest images of me ever taken.

“Sam, you are a genius,” I said as I scanned the images. He’d uploaded the pictures to his laptop, and the four of us were scrolling through them. “I can’t believe you pulled this off.”

“We pulled it off,” Sam said. “I couldn’t have done this without all of you.”

“He’s sexy and modest,” Britt said, wrapping her arms around him from behind. “Any wonder I love him so much?” Sam leaned back and kissed Britt, while Michael and I rolled our eyes.

“Well, I know just the thing to get the Astrid craze started,” Michael announced. He leaned over Sam and selected a few images, then he uploaded them onto a memory stick.

“Those proofs aren’t finalized,” Sam said.

“I know,” Michael replied. “If they were finalized, it wouldn’t look as authentic.” When we all just stared at them, he elaborated, “I’m going to ‘leak’ them online, starting with
If The Shoe Fits
.”

“I hate that site,” Britt said.

“Me too,” I agreed. “But John checks it every morning, why I don’t know.”

“Not only will His Sleaziness get an eyeful of you looking awesome,” Michael said as he plugged the stick into his laptop’s USB port, “all those sites that say they’re too good for gossip regularly steal from
If The Shoe Fits
. Hell, you might even get a Wikipedia page out of this.”

“I don’t need a Wikipedia page,” I said. “I just need to get some work.”

“Don’t worry,” Britt said. “We’ll get you some. Worse comes to worst, you can always stay at my place with Melody.”

“Oh, hell no,” I said.

Britt raised an eyebrow. “Mel’s not that bad. She’s always cleaning, and is very organized.”

“The last thing I need is some OCD white girl alphabetizing my shoes,” I said. “Besides, I like living alone.”

“Mm hmm, sure you do,” Michael said. “While you wallow in your delusions, I will send these pictures around.”

“And I’ll get some shots over to Kendra, have her people watermark a few,” Sam said. “Things are looking good, folks.”

“They sure are,” I agreed. If things were looking good, why did I feel like there was a stone on my heart?

Chapter

Thirty-Eight

Donnie

Another Tuesday, another day at work. I got into my Jeep that morning and drove to the restaurant, on autopilot in more ways than one. I used to enjoy my job, and was satisfied cooking for others. Ever since my blowup with Astrid, I just went through the motions at work, hardly caring if the food was done or even edible. I’d sent Astrid a thousand texts, called her a hundred times, and gotten silence as a reply. I didn’t even care about that guy I saw her with anymore, I just wanted to talk to her.

Okay, maybe I still cared about the guy, but only a little.

Astrid might think she’s avoiding me, but I had an ace up my sleeve—not only was I preparing Britt’s rehearsal dinner next weekend, I would be at the wedding helping Dianne with the cake. One way or another, I would see Astrid. I would make her hear me.

My phone buzzed just as I pulled into the restaurant’s parking lot. I glanced at the screen, and saw that it was my sister Amelia. “Am I an uncle again?” I asked.

“Not yet,” she replied. “This kid is way too comfortable. I’m going to text you a website you need to look at.”

“What website?”

“It’s a fashion blog,” Amelia replied. “There are new pictures of Astrid, and the internet’s going crazy over them.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I haven’t talked to her in a few weeks.”

“She still not replying?” Amelia was the only family member I’d told about me and Astrid’s fight.

“She’s not,” I replied. “If it might be over, why get all nostalgic over a few pictures?”

“Maybe they’ll make you fight harder.”

“If I fight any harder I’ll start earning medals.”

“She’s not worth it?”

I smacked the steering wheel. Astrid was worth fighting for, worth a frickin’ full on battle charge. “All right. Text it to me.”

“You got it.”

I got the link a few seconds later, but the pictures were so tiny on my phone I could hardly see anything. When I got to the restaurant I tore into the back door and went straight to the office computer. All the employees used it, from entering time sheets to ordering bulk items.

I typed the address in the browser, some fashion website called
If The Shoe Fits
. It was one of those trashy gossip pages that Lucia liked. I scrolled down a bit and whistled.

Amelia was right, those were some smoking pictures of Astrid. She was wearing this bright blue-green dress, the top so low and tight she was almost topless again. Britt was kneeling beside her, and there was a picnic basket on a blanket in front of them. Britt was pouring iced tea and Astrid was holding out a big, juicy slice of cherry pie toward the camera. Damn, but I wanted to take a bite out of her.

I grabbed my phone and called Amelia. “God, I miss her,” I said when she picked up.

“Then call her,” Amelia said.

“I do. All the time. She doesn’t answer.”

“Then write her a letter, send her a smoke signal, do something.” When I remained silent, Amelia continued, “You’re really going to let her go?”

“I’m not the one letting go.” I scrolled lower, and saw another picture of Astrid. She was in a restaurant, wearing this sexy as hell black lace dress. The next picture was her in that same dress, getting into a car. No, not a car; a stretch limo. I read the caption:

Has Astrid Janvier Finally Succumbed

To John Archer’s Charms?

“What the…”

“What the what?” Amelia squeaked.

“Scroll down,” I said. “That guy she’s with, that John Archer. He owns her agency. Been chasing after her for years.”

“Yeah, so?” Amelia asked. “They’re just eating.”

“Does a woman wear a dress like that if she’ll just be eating?” When Amelia didn’t answer, she confirmed every nagging thought I’d had. Astrid had moved on, far on from me. Maybe I’d bunk out of helping Dianne with the cake. “Listen, I appreciate all this. Maybe Astrid and I just weren’t meant to be.”

“I wish you were.”

“Me too.”

I ended the call, shut off the monitor, and went to work.

***

There’s this little bar between the restaurant and my place that I walk to after my shift sometimes. It’s a hole in the wall, offers three kinds of beer on tap, and all of the mixed drinks involve either vodka or rum mixed with juice that may or may not be expired. Still, the place was quiet and the people were nice, and I could quietly drink myself into oblivion.

I wondered if the bar Astrid was working in was like this.

I started coming here a few years ago, with a few of the waitstaff, the joke being that if I got too drunk to drive I could walk home. Tonight, I might just make good on that. Even when Astrid had thrown me out, and later when she stopped taking my calls, I hadn’t really thought we were done. If she was having dinner with that Archer guy, it might just be over.

If she was having dinner with that rich asshole, I bet she quit the bar gig.

So I had a drink. And another. After the third things got a little blurry, and blurrier still after the fourth, but it was okay. I was good. I could walk home.

“Hey.”

I looked to my left as Leela claimed the stool beside me. “I didn’t know you came here,” I said.

“Never have before.” She tossed her hair behind her shoulder, and leaned on the bar. “I came to see if you’re all right.”

“Fucking fabulous,” I said.

Leela touched my arm. “I saw the pictures of that girl you know and the man.”

“You mean Astrid?” I asked.

“Yeah. Her. You left the search window open on the computer.” Leela moved closer and said, “She doesn’t deserve you.”

“I don’t deserve her,” I mumbled. “Astrid’s just so pretty, so soft…so perfect.”

“You know, there are other girls that think you’re perfect,” Leela purred.

“Really?” I asked. “Who?”

“I think you know.” Leela called the bartender over and settled the bill. “Come on, big guy,” she said as she stood, grabbing my arm and helping me up. “I’ll get you home.”

***

Every muscle in my body hurt.

Whether it was stiff as a board or sore as if I’d been beaten with a rolling pin, they all hurt. In addition to the sore body, my eyes were gritty, my head throbbed, and my mouth tasted like something had died in it.

I guess that’s why they call it rotgut.
I remembered going to the bar last night, but what I could not remember was getting myself home. I hoped I hadn’t driven home. Man, I hope I paid the tab too.

I raised myself up just enough so I could see out my window—empty driveway. I flopped back to the mattress, relieved that I wouldn’t be adding drunk driving to my resumé. When I hit the mattress, the woman beside me sighed and shifted closer to me.

“Astrid?”

Had she come by last night, had she gotten me home? I grinned, happy for the first time in weeks. If Astrid was here, it meant she wanted to work things out. It meant that John Archer asshole meant nothing to her. Then I rolled over and saw the last person I wanted in my bed—Leela.

Since she was still sleeping, I took a minute for damage control. I was still dressed, which was a good sign. She was wearing her bra, and when I tugged the blanket lower I found her work skirt and tights present and accounted for. Thank frickin’ God, we hadn’t had sex. That still didn’t explain what she was doing in my bed.

I got up and went into the bathroom, and the continued lack of evidence that we’d had sex was the only good thing about this morning. I brushed my teeth, grabbed a quick shower, and returned to the bedroom.

“Leela,” I said, shaking the mattress. “Leela!”

She stretched and yawned, then gave me a lazy smile. “Hey, baby.”

“I am not your baby,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

“You were drunk, so I got you home,” she said.

I nodded. “Where’s your shirt?”

“You took it off me.” Leela sat up, moved her hands behind her back.

“No,” I snapped. I saw her shirt on the floor, and tossed it at her. “Listen, thanks for helping me out. I really appreciate it.” When she kept staring at me, I added, “I don’t really remember what happened last night, but I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong idea.”

“Wrong idea?” she asked. “Don, you were all over me.”

“Leela, I was so drunk I don’t even remember leaving the bar,” I said. “Is that what you want?”

She leaned forward and tried grabbing my hand. “I want you.”

I stepped back, out of her reach. “I’m sorry, but I’m not interested.” Leela’s jaw dropped, and I moved toward the door. “Get dressed, then I’ll get you home.”

“I paid your fucking bar tab last night!”

I took out my wallet and asked, “How much do I owe you?”

Leela looked down. “I don’t want your money.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t like owing people.” I counted out five twenties and handed them to her. “I mean it, Leela, I appreciate you helping me. Now get dressed. I’ve got to be at the restaurant soon.”

Leela looked at the money on the bed, then up at me. “This is about her, isn’t it? That little slut from New York?”

“Don’t you dare call Astrid a slut,” I yelled. “We’ve had some problems, but we’re going to work through everything.”

“You, her, and the man in the suit?” Leela demanded. “Face facts, Don. She’s fucking him.”

“Out,” I said. I found her shoes, coat, and purse, and thrust them at her. “Out of my house. Don’t ever come near me again.”

“What about work?”

“Only talk to me about work-related things,” I said. Luckily Leela only worked weekends in the off season, so I’d only see her four days a month anyway. “Go.”

Leela stared at me for a second, her lower lip trembling, then she put on her coat and shoes. “You’re gonna regret this, Don.”

“I already do.”

A fully clothed Leela stomped down the stairs and out the door. After she was gone I sat on the couch and held my head in my hands, wondering what the hell was wrong with me. I drank from time to time, but I’d never blacked out like that. And I knew exactly why I’d done it—those pictures of Astrid and her boss.

I’d thought I could let Astrid go, but I was wrong. She was under my skin, in my heart, and I didn’t want her gone. I wanted her back, and I was going to get her.

The alarm on my phone beeped, letting me know I had to be at work in an hour. Today was Wednesday, and the Sullivan-MacKellar rehearsal dinner was in two days. Astrid would be there, and I’d talk to her. Apologize. God, I’d beg if I had to, but I needed to make her understand what she meant to me.

I needed her to take me back.