No Shelf Control (Side Hustle #13)

Chapter 1

Sage

My house is a wreck.

Literally, it’s a miracle it’s still standing given the peeling paint, dead lawn, and what looks like a rotted wood porch.

“You sure it’s safe?” Devlin flutters the long, fake lashes he’s just glued on and fans his face. I’ve caught him mid-transformation into one of LA’s top in-demand queens, and I can’t help but admire his perfect application of makeup. It’s not a talent I’ve got.

I stare up at the house Dad signed over to me as soon as I floated the idea of taking the Soltero Beach University job. It’s small, Craftsman-style, and sorely neglected.

“It’s got good bones, I’m told.”

Devlin’s eyes cut to me through the video. “Pssh. I know who needs a good bone.”

Snickering, I wave him off and remind myself it was gifted to me with one important caveat — I’m supposed to make this heap habitable.

“Never mind that. I can do this, right?”

“Babes, you can do anything. You can kick ass, take names, climb the corporate ladder and whip those wannabe starlets into shape.”

“No, I mean, like, fix this house. I’m good with my hands, right?”

Devlin swipes his lips with the kind of deep red that makes Swifties swoon. “How would I know? You ain’t never been my type.”

I roll my eyes. “I mean, I can DIY. This place looks like it needs some serious love and work.”

“Yeah, but it’s kind of fitting, right?” Devlin smiles, eyes soft and focused on me. “It’s a bit like you.”

“Cause my life is in shambles?” I scoff and pop the trunk of my Rav4. Boxes of my belongings are shoved in among the luggage cases I’ve been living out of for the last three months while I couch-surfed on Devlin’s pull-out.

I thought maybe my whole life would pass me by on that couch. That I’d wasted all those years and all that student loan money studying something that wasn’t actually going to get me anywhere.

Until I was officially offered my highest-paying role yet—

That of… drum roll, please… drama instructor, effective in a few weeks, at the start of the fall term.

“Your life was in shambles,” Devlin clucks. “Now, you’re rebuilding. You’re in your hot teacher era now, sweetheart. Moving on up!”

“No joke on the rebuilding part.”

“Anyway, I have faith in you. I’ve seen you build stage props. They held up, didn’t they? Not like your love life. Maybe that, too, will be revived in this new chapter?”

I snorted.

“I’m twenty-eight. Most of my students will be fresh out of high school, Dev.”

“So? Just keep it legal, you know what I’m saying?”

“I’m not trying to get fired from the first steady paycheck I’ve had that’s not paying me in tips.”

Devlin makes a face that says, girl, please.

“You forget that I know waitressing was not the only thing that kept your bank balance from being zero.”

“Shh! That’s just… that’s just to pay my student loans back.”

Even though there’s no one around, my head still whips around to make sure the coast is clear. No cars pass. No nosy neighbor’s face presses up against a window, staring at me as I yank one of my suitcases out of the trunk.

Then I grumble, “Knew I shouldn’t have told you anything.”

“Hey, a job’s a job, and at least it’s still performance art. Do what you gotta do to get paid that money, honey. Speaking of, I’ve got to run. Duty and drama calls!” He flashes me a warm smile and blows me a kiss.

“Break a leg,” I murmur, returning the gesture and squashing the pang of jealousy that springs up when the call ends.

I march up to the door and drop my bag, sighing as I go.

Devlin flocked to Los Angeles, same as I did, but made a name for himself as an entertainer. Now, he rakes in the big bucks as Dottie Tees, a performance regular, host extraordinaire, and occasional nightclub DJ.

My name? Nowhere near being up in lights.

The closest I got was Dead Body #3 on an episode of a police procedural and some uncredited background work. Oh, there was the occasional stage production, of course, but I’m a small fish in a big Hollywood pond.

And I hate admitting it.

Just then, the sound of a car backfiring cracks through the air. I jump, bumping against my suitcase as the ancient pickup rounds the corner and rattles down the street.

I’m too busy trying to steady my startled heart and gulping down air to notice my case is a runaway. Two heartbeats later, I realize it’s skidding down the driveway on a collision course with that noisy truck.

Without thinking, I chase after it, flapping my arms and screaming out, “Wait, stop! Stop! Oh, fuck, stop!”

Time slows as my feet hit the asphalt. I stretch my hands out. One forward for the luggage and one back to the truck. At the last second, with the sound of squealing tires ringing in my ears, I swivel my head and make eye contact with the driver.

Impossibly blue, panic-stricken eyes meet mine, and my heart stops dead in my chest.

He’s fucking gorgeous.

The details flash into my mind like a photograph—salt-and-pepper temples, deeply tanned skin, a ruggedly handsome face with lips I can’t tear my gaze from.

Oh, he mouths, shit.

Good teeth, too.

Too bad he’s about to knock me flat.

At least I’ll die looking at something pretty.

My hand closes over the handle. I yank the case against my body and stagger back. My eyes squeeze shut as I stumble, fall to my knees, and brace myself for an impact that never comes.

Instead, the truck swerves. Tires scream. The scent of burnt rubber reaches me at the same time the driver’s thunderous voice does.

“Jesus Christ, are you out of your goddamn mind?”

“Is it over?” I crack open one eye. “Am I dead?”