Chapter 12 Willa
TWELVE
WILLA
“Okay, don’t look now, but I think that guy over there was in that movie last year with whatsername from Twilight where she was a singer. Or maybe she was a nurse. Or was it Hermione?” Harley’s roommate Remi might be an idiot.
“I didn’t see it.”
“Neither did I—don’t look, but he’s really cute and he keeps checking you out.”
“I’m not going to look, and I don’t know who you’re talking about.” We’re seated at one end of a long table. The Hotel Café is crowded, mostly filled with young women my age who are here to see my brother, and I wish he would take the stage already so this person would stop talking.
“Okay, well, he’s super cute and his friend looks really familiar too.”
There’s a guy on stage who’s setting up microphones and a keyboard and drums. Is he my brother’s roadie?
Is that what you call him even if my brother’s not on the road?
Does that mean my brother will be starting soon?
How is it possible that my panties are this wet, even though I changed them before coming here?
Harley puts her hand on my shoulder. “Willa’s living with a much cuter, much more famous actor, Rem. She’s not going to go slumming with no-name below the title actors that she doesn’t recognize.”
My cheeks are on fire.
“Wait—who are you living with?”
“Not like that—I’m his nanny.”
How is it that no one has been able to tell just from looking at me that I had a massive orgasm like one hour ago? How is it not obvious to everyone that I’m not really here? I’m in a garage, pressed up against a Land Rover, disappearing into the hypnotic rhythm of the most intense kiss of my life?
“I mean, I just started looking after his kids, but he’s my brother’s best friend.”
“Who is it?”
I don’t think I can say his name out loud right now without arching my back and moaning.
“Shane Miller,” Harley tells her.
Remi’s eyes nearly pop out of her head. “Shut up! From Twice Bitten?”
“From That’s So Wizard,” Harley corrects her. “And that movie with John Cena that we liked.”
Is the hum of the crowd’s chatter and the muted funky bass groove that’s blasting from the speakers really so loud that no one can hear me screaming Shane’s name in my head? God, I hope I didn’t wake up the twins. God, I hope we get to do that again.
“Wait… I thought he was married to Margo Quincey. They were so cute together on that show.”
“They got divorced after two years and she married someone else,” I snap.
“Wait. You’re living with him?”
Yes, and I’m still feeling the aftereffects of his one-handed virtuoso performance on my clitoris. Is there an Oscar category for Best Male Finger Banger? Because we have a winner.
“Not like that. I’m the nanny.”
“He has kids?”
“Yes. That’s why he hired me as a nanny. To look after his kids.”
“Awww. I love kids. Should we get mojitos?”
Both Harley and I ignore that question—me because I’m still in a garage with Shane Miller’s beautiful possessive hand on my boob and Harley because she’s been busy scanning and categorizing the entire male population of this establishment since we got here.
“Okay, there are like fifty guys here, mostly under forty, predominantly singer-songwriters like Nico, Hollywood and music industry assistant-types. Possibly a few junior music executives. A few B-list actors. I see potential in about five of them.”
None of them. I see potential in none of them.
“I say we blow this hole as soon as Nico’s set is over and you say your hellos and goodbyes, little sister, and then we head down to The Three Clubs to meet up with my friends from work.
Then hit up either the Rooftop at The Standard downtown or The Exchange, because I know the DJ who’s on at midnight and I should be on the list. Depends on how we’re feeling vis-à-vis guys with degrees and jobs or whatever. ”
Tired. I’m already feeling tired of all of this. I already miss the twins. I miss the house. I miss Shane, and not just because he’s such an amazing kisser.
“Is Netflix and wine really not an option?”
Remi laughs because she doesn’t know me well enough to realize that I’m one hundred percent serious, and Harley rolls her eyes because she knows me so well, she totally called this a week and a half ago.
“I knew it. I told you I’d lose you to the Westside.”
“I’m here, aren’t I? I’m out with you.” I raise my hands in the air and do a little butt dance in my chair. “Woohoo! Friday night in Hollywood!” When can I go home?
“Actually, I think it was Jennifer Lawrence,” Remi declares. “The movie that guy was in. He’s still looking over here. Don’t look, though.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t.”
Harley is frowning at me, and I don’t blame her.
I am the oldest twenty-four-year old in Los Angeles.
Thank God the house music fades and my brother steps out on stage.
I am so happy to see him that I almost forget that his best friend’s fingers were inside me not very long ago.
Nope. Now I’m thinking about it again. The way these young women are hooting and hollering for Nico, that’s what I want to do when I think about Shane.
Shane.
He needs to see this.
I pull out my phone and take a little video of the enthusiastic female crowd and the way my brother is standing there in front of the microphone, casually tuning his guitar and smirking out over the darkness.
He doesn’t say anything. He just launches into one of his upbeat fan favorites, and the hooting and hollering kicks up a decibel.
Okay, I’m proud of the fucker. This is cool.
I yell out, “I love you, Nico!!! Wooooo!” My brother grins in a way that tells me he heard me and recognized my voice.
I send the video as a text, to Shane, with no message. I email it to my Grammie, explaining where I am. I slide the phone into the back pocket of my jeans so I can give my brother the attention he deserves. Until I feel it vibrate. I move my phone to my lap and discreetly check the screen.
SHANE: What a stud. Guess this means you got there safely.
ME: I sent you that picture of our feet walking down Cahuenga!
SHANE: That was not evidence of your safe arrival at The Hotel Café. Those boots are really fucking hot, though.
ME: Well thank you, but they’re made for walking and they got me here safe and sound.
SHANE: Good. Have fun.
ME: You too.
SHANE: Not too much fun.
ME: You too.
“Seriously?” Harley is reading over my shoulder. “Why are you even here?”
“Sorry. Putting my phone away.”
“Like hell you are,” she whisper-yells into my ear. “I mean, what are you doing here when you should be in the bathroom taking a boob pic for sexy daddy boss?”
“I am not sending him a boob pic! I do not send boob pics.”
Right?