Page 4 of Speak of the Devil

“Roberta,” I say in a syrupy-sweet tone when I turn back. “There must be something you can do to help me. It’s notmymistake.” I know those are the wrong words the moment they leave my mouth.

Her eyes ice over and narrow, making me feel like the bull’s-eye she’s aiming for. “It’s not mine either,” she protests, crossing her arms over her large chest.

We stare at each other, but I know I’m the one who will lose in the end.

I thought I’d be unlocking my new house and moving in today. Ordering pizza and unpacking. That’s clearly not going to happen now because Roberta has no intention of helping me unless I can produce a man.

I’m left with no other choice but to stalk a celebrity and convince him to divorce me.

Unsuccessful in my first attempt, I return to my car to start on plan B.

Sitting in my eleven-year-old car, it’s a hot box until the air finally kicks in. I pull out my phone to start the online search now that I’m cooling down.

Shane Faris phone number.

Nothing.

Shane Faris home address.

Los Angeles.Not helpful in a way I need, but at least we’re in the same city to deal with this mess.

Shane Faris record label.

Outlaw Records.

Outlaw Records phone number.

“Bingo.”

Taking the wildest chance that I’ll get to speak with him, I call.

“Outlaw Records, how may I direct your call?”

“Shane Faris, please.” The pause is particularly long, making me double-check that I wasn’t hung up on. I bite my tongue and wait a few more seconds before I break. “Hello?”

“I can take a message.”

Disappointing but not surprising. Like I’d really get to talk to someone famous just because I’m married to him and took a stab at calling his record label on the slimmest of chances he’s hanging around the office randomly on a Monday.

I haven’t thought this through. What do I say? Hey, call your wife? Surprise! You’re married?Ugh. Is there a way to make me sound less like the stalker I am? “Is there a better time to call?”

“We only take messages for our clients.”

“Ah. Right. Okay. Can you have him call Cate. C. A.T. E. Farin. F. A. R. I. N.” I give her my number, and we disconnect. If I used her tone as a marker, he won’t ever receive that message. She probably thinks I’m just another fan. I wish it were that easy to explain away.

That’s not my case. But trying to explain that my future relies on having a conversation with one of the biggest stars in music, add in me claiming to be his wife, and I’d probably be reported to the FBI.

It was probably best to keep the message simple and direct. Whether he ever gets it is another issue entirely.

So now what?

With a bouquet in hand,my best friend double steps when she sees me. “This is how I like to be greeted.” I get a tight Luna embrace before she slips in the booth across from me. “A margarita on the rocks already waiting? You do love me.”

“No lime. Tajin on the rim.” I fluff my napkin over my lap. “Do I know you or what?”

Luna takes a sip, closing her eyes and savoring the liquid like it’s been years since she’s had such delights. It’s been two days since we last went out. When her eyes reopen, she grins. “Better than any man ever did. Did I ever tell you how my college boyfriend used to always bring me six-packs of Stella Artois?” She’s not really asking because she’ll answer herself in three, two, one. “He just refused to believe I didn’t love exactly what he did. I’ve always been a margarita girl. I love coffee. He loved tea. I think he was just pretentious.”

“For loving tea?”

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