Page 5 of Speak of the Devil

“No, the tea wasn’t the issue. It was his collection of bags that outnumbered mine. He had like thirty Prada backpacks.” She shrugs. “I didn’t even know they made that many.”

“And I thought I needed a drink.” I adore her, but I feel like I’m about three drinks behind her when she’s only on her first.

“God, I needed this after the day I’ve had—Oh, here.” She hands the bouquet over the table. “Congratulations on the new home. Why aren’t we celebrating at the new place?”

“Thank you, but I didn’t close on the house.” I smell them before setting them on the table.

“Oh no. What happened?” Her drink is forgotten, but her fingers find the basket of chips.

“There’s been a mix-up with the paperwork. I spent hours trying to fix it but couldn’t.”

Reaching across the table, she gives my hand a squeeze. “I’m sorry. How are you feeling?” As an actress, Luna fills every one of her stories with life, imagery, and big feelings. As my best friend, she’s always there for me—quieter, ready to listen, never throwing judgment around, and caring.

The adrenaline I’ve been running on all day drained away the moment I sat down, knowing I’m in a safe place to be able to tell her anything. “I’m not sure how I feel—numb, nervous, or frustrated by the situation. Maybe all the above.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“You want the long or short version?”

As she reaches for a chip, her eyes widen. “There’s a long version? Is that why we’re drinking at three in the afternoon?” she asks as if it’s odd for us. It’s not. But day drinking is not usually a workweek event since I have a full-time job. The chip crumbles under the bite, causing crumbs to fly everywhere.

“I’m still processing what happened, so let’s talk about you first.”

She’s dusting off her shirt when she replies, “The audition was terrible. I had absolutely no chemistry with the guy they cast as the lead, though I had sex with him three years ago in the pool house after an after-after Oscar party.”

We met at a Hollywood party and instantly clicked. Birds of a feather and all that jazz. We lead two entirely different lives, but we found common ground in the things that matter—friendship, loyalty, having each other’s backs, and dating mishaps.

But four years into this friendship, she still manages to blindside me with some of her wilder stories. “Yikes. That bad, huh?”

“Yes, he was horrible in bed. How am I supposed to overcome that tragedy?”

“Well,” I start, my head bobbing side to side. “That’s kind of the purpose of your job. Pretending.”

She can level me with a look, but she can never hold it and starts laughing. “True.

I didn’t really want the part anyway. I just went because my dad pulled some strings to get me in the door.”

“But you made it past the first three rounds all on your own. It’s a hard business.”

Anchoring her head to the side, she grins, but it’s lacking the joy she usually carries with her. “They were doing my dad a favor.” She takes another sip and then shrugs. “I have a feeling that nepotism has struck again.”

Her dad is one of the biggest producers in Hollywood. He adores two things: his job and his daughter. After floundering around a few careers, she said she wanted to try acting at twenty-five. He cast her as a lead in a major motion picture that immediately panned her skills as “self-indulgent acting.”

Self-indulgent? Maybe a little, but they missed the spark she brought to the part. I quite enjoyed her performance.

Luna Daize is hard to deter. She scrapped her team and started acting classes. Years later, she still can’t land a role unless her dad is behind it. She loves the lifestyle he affords her but wants to earn the roles she gets.

She picks up her drink. “Enough about me. Tell me what happened with the house. Give me the long version.”

I’ve debated how to tell her or anyone else. It’s not a secret since it’s only a mistake, but should I keep this on the down-low until after it’s fixed? I need to vent, and who better to listen to my woes than someone who has heard and seen it all in LA?

Waggling my ringless fingers, I say, “I’m married.” Margarita spews from her lips. “Luna!” I jump up, but my arm has already received the bulk of the liquid.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” She rushes around to rub me down with her napkin.

Batting her away, I say, “I have it. I have it.” This is hardly the first time she’s spewed her drink on me. We’ve made some great memories. “Can you turn away from me next time?” I tease, patting my skin dry.

She turns her attention to wiping the booth but still cackles under her breath. “You can’t just drop a bomb on me like that.”

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